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LITTELL'S 



LIVING AGE 






S Plumbus UiruM. 

"These poblicatioos ol the day •hodd firom time to time be winiumed, the wheat carefully preienred, and 

the chaff thrown awajr*" 

" Made np of erery creaton^a beeL^ 

"Varioiu, that the mind 
Of desultonr man, studious of chanji^e, 
And pleased with norelty, may be mdulged." 



FIFTH SERIES, VOLUME XIX 

FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. CXXXIT. 

yVZy, AUGUST, SEPTEMBER, 

1877. 



BOSTON: 

LITTELL AND GAY. 



TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS 



or 



THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME CXXXIV 

THX NINBTBXNTH QUAKTSXLY TOLUMB OF THB PIPTH SBSIBS. 

JULY, AUGUST, SEPTEMBER, 1877. 



Edinburgh Review. 

The Life and Correspondence of Kleber, 
North-Country Naturalists, • 

Venice Defended, 

The England of Elizabeth, 

The Sibylline Books, • • • . 

Quarterly Review. 

The First Lord Abinger and the Bar, . 

Oxford Gossip in the Seventeenth Cen- 

tury, 

New Quarterly Review. 

The Peak in Darien: the Riddle of 
Death, 

Fortnightly Review. 

Maoris and Kanakas, . • • 
A Leaf of Eastern History, . 

George Sand, 

A Plea for a Rational Education, . 

Contemporary Review. 

Pedigrees and Pedigree- Makers, • 

Pascal and Montaigne, . 

Virgil, as a Link between the Ancient 

and Modem World, • • 
Morality in Politics, 
A Chapter on the French Renaissance, 
Pictures in Holland, on and off Canvas, 
The Trial of Jesus Christ, . • 

Blackwood^s Magazine. 

Twenty Years of African Travel, • 
The Egyptian Campaign in Abvssinia, 
Dresden China and its Manufactory at 

Meissen, Saxony, . • • 
Nelson in the Bsiy of Naples, • • 
Marat as King of Naples, • 

Eraser's Magazine. 

A Peculiar Holiday, 
Concerning the Longest Day, • 

Gentleman's Magazine. 

Discovery of Lamb's *< Poetry for Chil 
dren»" 



451 
470 

579 
771 



387 
707 



374 



131 
174 
«9S 
745 



67 
259 

323 

^^ 
043 

689 
729 



27 
278 



659 



684 



485 



if. 



. 222 

232. 548 
• 293 



433 
796 



113 



97 
152 

675 
810 



CoRNHiLL Magazine. 
Genius and Vanity, . 
Crema and the CrudOx, 
Is the Moon Dead ? 
Carita, . 
The Planet of War, 
An Aj)ology for Idlers, 
Lucian, . • 

Macmillan's Magazine. 

Mordecai : a Protest against the Critics, 

A Scottish " Elia," 561 

Temple Bar. 

Voltaire iu che Netherlands, . 
Georges d'Amboise, 
A Princess's Moonlight Flitting, 
John and Sarah Kemble, 
Spanish Barracks and Hospitals, 

Nineteenth Century. 

Life and Times of Thomas Becket, 3, 360, 540 
Harriet Martineau, 617 

Leisure Hour. 

The Dog of the Barracks, • 
A Dog Aiding in Smuggling, . 

Popular Science Review. 

Notes on the Geographical Distribution 

of Animals, 

On the Trees and Shrubs of the South 
of France, which Perish in Severe 

Winters, 384 

Distances of the Stars, .... 448 
The Protection of Iron arainst Rust, • 640 
Supposition that Sunlight can be Con- 
densed, . . • • • , 824 

Examiner. 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly, 44, 121, 170, 

251, 302, 3^ 
. 574 



190 
193 



308 



An Obsolete Virtue, 

Spectator. 

A Great Sea- Wave, 
Miss Mary Carpenter, • 
Japanese Children, • • 



m 



61 

305 
31a 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



The Debate on the Sale of Livings, 

Lux in Tenebris, 

Diamonds, .... 

King John of Ethiopia, . 

Norway and the Maelstrom, . 

Mr. Pongo, .... 

A Lonelv Bit of England, 

Money-Orders, 

Impressions of a Meeting-House, 

The Future of England, . 

The Colorado Beetle, 

The Pace of^Mind, . 



Economist. 

Results of the Invention of the Sewing- 
Machine, 

Saturday Review. 

Parliaments, 

General Impressions, . . . • 



315 
444 
509 
570 
627 

^33 
703 

759 
761 

767 

81S 

821 



Pall Mall Gazette. 

North-Country Fishermen, • , 
Popular ErrorSi • • • < 



187 



l'7 
>30 



63 
124 



Liberal Review. 
Little Tortures, . . . , ■126 

Chambers* Journal. 

Unsuspected Ways of Earning a Liveli- 
hood, 370 

The Duke's Piper: a Story of the West 

Highlands, 411 

Fanchctte: the Goat of Boulainvilliers, 467 

The Mongoose, 636 

Mushroom Cultivation in Japan, . . 639 

The Changes of Color in the Chameleon, 822 

Nature. 

A New Stimulant — Pitury, . , .128 

Japanese Mirrors, 191 

Electricity in War, 700 

An Algerian Inland Sea, . . . 767 

Fireside. 
William Caxton, 127 

Harper's Bazar. 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly, 409^ 533, 611, 

072. 741, &^ 



INDEX TO VOLUME C XXXIV. 



African Travel, Twenty Years of . 
Ab^inia, The Egyptian Campaign in 
Animals, Geographical Distribution of 
Abinger, Lord, The First, and the Bar, 
Algerian Inland Sea, An • • 



Becket, Thomas 
Bassano, . 
Bees, About . 



Caxton, William . 

Crema and the Cruci6x, 

Carita, . . • 

Carpenter, Miss Mary, 

Colorado Beetle, The 

Chameleon, Changes of Color in the 



3.360, 



232 



D'Amboise, Georges 
Dog of the Barracks, The 
Dog Aiding in Smup^iJng, A . 
Dresden China and its Manufactory, 
Death, The Riddle of . • . 
Duke's Piper, The .... 

Diamonds, 

Davidson, Thomas, A Scottish " Elia," 

Eastern History, A Leaf of . 
Egyptian Campaign in Abyssinia, . 
Early Closing, A New Zealand Divine 

on .••••• 
Embalming the Dead, Ancient Modes 
" Elia," A Scottish .... 
Ethiopia, King John of . 
Elizabeth, The England of . 
Electricity in War, .... 
Education, A Plea for a Rational . 
England, The Future of . 



of 



the 



Fishermen, North-Country . 
France, Tender Trees and Shrubs of 
South of ... . 
Fanchette : the Goat of Boulainvilliers, 
French Renaissance, A Chapter on the 



27 
278 
308 

387 
764 

540 
491 

576 



127 
182 

. 548 

822 

152 
191 
192 

372 

374 
411 

509 

561 

174 
278 

3»9 
447 
561 

570 

579 
700 

767 



63 

384 
467 

643 



Green Pastures and Piccadilly, 44, 121, 179, 

251. 302, 368, 499. 533, on, 672, 741, 807 

Genius and Vanity, 52 



Geographical Distribution of Animals, 

The 
Gorilla, The, in London, 

Holiday, A Peculiar 
Holland, Pictures in, on and off Can 
vas, 



Idlers, An Ap>ology for . 
Impressions, General • 



Japanese Mirrors, , 
Japanese Children, . 
Japan, Mushroom Cultivation 
Jesus Christ, The Trial of 



Kanakas and Maoris, . 

Kleber, Life and Correspondence of 

Kemble, John and Sarah 




m 



437 
689 

433 
6jo 

191 
31a 

039 
729 

I3» 

67s 



Little Old Man of the BatignoUes, 266^ 334 
Livings, Debate^ on the Sale of 
Livelihood, Unsuspected Ways of Earn 

inga . 
Lux in Tcrtebris, 
Lamb's " Poetry for Children 

ery of . 
Longest Day, Concerning the 
Lundy Island, . . 
Lucian, .... 




Marquis of Lossie, The . 

Mordecai : a Protest against the Critics, 

Maoris and Kanakas, . 

Moon, The, Is it Dead ? . 

Montaigne and Pascal, . 

Mars, .... 

Morality in Politics, , 

Matches, Good 

Martineau, Harriet . 

Maelstrom, The, and Norway 

Mongoose, The 

Mushroom Cultivation in Japan, 

Murat as King of Naples, 

Money-C)rders, 

Meeting- House, Impressions of a 

Mind, The Pace of . 



" Discov 



3»S 

379 
445 

485 
684 
70J 
790 



85, 165, 204 

IIS 

I3» 
222 

259 
293 

627 
636 

639 
659 

759 
761 

821 




VI 



INDEX. 



North-Country Naturalists, . . 470 
Nelson in the ISay of Naples, . • . 603 
Norway and the Maelstrom, • . • 627 

Oxford Gossip in the Seventeenth Cen- 
tury, 707 

Pauune, 12, 105, 143, 287, 3S3» S93> 

Pedigrees and Pedigree-Makers, 
Popular Errors, 
Pitury, A New Stimulant, 
Pascal and Montaigne, . 
Parliaments, . . • 
Politics, Morality in 
Printers, Famous English 
Princess's Moonlight Flitting, 
Pace of Mind, The . • 



Rust, Protection of Iron against . 
Renaissance, French, A Chapter on the 
Rational Education, A Plea for a . 




Stimulant, A New . . . .128 
Sewing-Machine, Results of the Inven- 
tion of the 187 

Sand, George 195 

Scarlett, James, Lord Abinger • . 387 
Stars, Distances of the .... 448 
Sibylline Books, The . . . .771 
Spanish Barracks and Hospitals, . . 810 
Sunlight, Can it be Condensed, . . 824 



Tortures, Little 126 



Vanity and Genius .... 52 

Voltaire in the Netherlands, ... 97 
Virgil, as a Link between the Ancient 

and Modern World, • . • 323 

Venice Defended, . • • • • 5^5 

Virtue, An Obsolete • • • . 574 

Wave, A Great • • • • • 61 



POETRY. 



Ave Maria, •••••• 2 

Alone, 770 

Alpine Heights, • • • » • 770 



Burial at Highgate, A 
Blue Gentian, The . 



642 



Carpenter, Mary, I 

City Weed, A 



^ 



Died Happy, • » • • • •514 



Evening Time, 
Empress of India, To the 



130 
5^4 



Harmony, •••••• 450 

Hope, A. •• •\»*66 

Hugo, Victor, To 66 

Hermione, To • • ^ • • • 770 



June, 



322 



Lenachluten, 386 

Loaded Wains, 706 



Mellish, Lord Justice • 
Melancholy Ocean, The • 
Moming-Glory, • • 



130^ 322 
. 386 
. 578 



No More Sea, 130 

Norton, Caroline Elizabeth Sarah . •194 

Near Shore 642 

Outward Bound, 322 

Protest, A . • . • . • 450 

Patience,* • •, • • • • 643 

Regained, 514 

Requiescat, 770 

So is the Story Told, .... 130 

Switzerland, vid Paris and Neuchatel, . 258 

Spring's Secret, 258 

Spring is Here, 322 

Sleep, . •' 386 

Sonnet, 514 

Sylvan Reverie, A ^78 

Sunshine, •••••. 642 

Siesta, ••••••• 770 

Thisbe. 66 



Woman's "No," A. 
Windy Evening, A . 
** When the Grass shall Cover me,*' 



322 
706 
706 



TALES. 



Carita, • 232, 548 

Duke's Piper, The • • . • .411 

Oreen Pastures and Piccadilly, 44, 121, 179, 
25'» 302, 368, 499» 533* o"> 672, 741, 807 



Little Old Man of the BatignoUes, The 266b 

334 



Marquis of Lossie, The 



8s, 164, 204 



Pauline, 12, 105, I43» 287, 353, 593, 652, 721. 

790 



■ -.-^ 



LITTELL'S LIYrN"G AGE. 



Fifth Series, I 
Volume UX, 5 



No. 1725. -July 7, 1877. 



^ From Becrinning, 
( Vol. CXXXIV. 



CONTENTS. 

I. Life and Times of Thomas Becket. By 

James Anthony Froude, .... Nineteenth Century^ 

II. Paulinf^ By L B. Walford, author of " Mr. 

Smith," etc Part VI., .... Advance Sheets, 

II L Twenty Years of African Travel, . Blackwood* s Magazine, 

IV. Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By 

William Black. Part XIX., . . . Examiner, . 

V. Genius and Vanity, Comhill Magazine, 

VI. A Great Sea- Wave, Spectator, 

VIL North-Country Fishermen, . . . PaU Mall Gazette, . 



13 
27 

44 

52 
61 

63 



POETRY. 



Ave Masia. A Breton Legend, 



PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY 

LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. 



TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. 

For EtCHT DoLLASS, rtmiiUd directly to the PuUiskers^ the Living Acs will be punctually forwarded for a 
jtMTtJ^ee 0/ postnge. 

An extra copy of Thb Living Acs is sent gratis to any one getting up a dub of Five New Subscriberii. 

Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-ofnce money^rder, if possible. li neither of 
thcM can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register 
ktters when requested to do so.' Drafts, checka and moaey-orders should oe made payable to the oraer of 
L1TTBI.L & Gay. 

Numbers of Thb Livimo Acs, 18 cents. 



AVE MARIA. 



AVE MARIA. 

A BRETON LEGEND. 

I. 

In the ages of faith, before the day 
When men were too proud to weep or pray, 
There stood in a red-roofed Breton town 
Snugly nestled 'twixt sea and down, 
A chapel for simple souls to meet, 
Nightly, and sing with voices sweet, 

Ave Maria I 

II. 

There was an idiot, palsied, bleared, 
With unkempt locks and a matted beard, 
Hunched from the cradle, vacant-eyed, 
And whose head kept rolling from side to side ; 
Yet who, when the sunset glow grew dim, 
Joined with the rest in the twilight hymn, 

Ave Maria 1 

III. 

But when they up-got and wended home, 
Those up the hillside, these to the foam, 
He hobbled along in the narrowing dusk, 
like a thing that is only hull and husk ; 
On as he hobbled, chanting still, 
Now to himself, now loud and shrill, 

Ave Maria I 

IV. 

When morning smiled on the smiling deep. 
And the fisherman woke from dreamless sleep, 
And ran up his sail, and trimmed his craft. 
While his little ones leaped on the sand and 

laughed. 
The senseless cripple would stand and stare, 
Then suddenly holloa his wonted prayer, 

Ave Maria I 

V. 

Others might plough, and reap, and sow. 
Delve in the sunshine, spin in snow, 
Make sweet love in a shelter sweet, 
Or trundle their dead in a winding-sheet ; 
But he, through rapture, and pain, and wrong, 
Kept singing liis one monotonous song, 

Ave Maria ! 

VI. 

When thunder growled from the ravelled 

wrack. 
And ocean to welkin bellowed back. 
And the lightning sprang from its cloudy 

sheath, 
And tore through the forest with jagged teeth, 
Then leaped and laughed o'er the havoc 

wreaked,- 
The idiot clapped with his hands, and shrieked, 

Ave Maria ! 

VII. 

Children mocked, and mimicked his feet, 
As he slouched or sidled along the street ; 
Maidens shrank as he passed them by, 
And mothers with child eschewed his eye ; 
And half in pity, half scorn, the folk 
Christened him, from the words he spoke, 

A v^ Maria. 



vin. 

One year when the harvest feasts were done, 
And the mending of tattered nets begun. 
And the kittiwake*s scream took a weirder key 
From the wailing wind and the moaning sea, 
He was found, at morn, on the fresh-strewn 

snow. 
Frozen, and faint, and crooning low, 

Ave Maria ! 

IX. 

They .stirred up the ashes between the dogs. 
And warmed his limbs bv the blazing logs, 
Chafed his puckered and bloodless skin, 
And strove to quiet his chattering chin ; 
But, ebbing with unreturning tide, 
He kept on murmuring till he died, 

Ave Maria I 



Idiot, soulless, brute from birth. 
He could not be buried in sacred earth ; 
So they laid him afar, apart, alone. 
Without or a cross, or turf, or stone. 
Senseless clay unto senseless clay, 
To which none ever came nigh to say, 

Ave Maria ! 

XI. 

When the meads grew saffron, the hawthorns 

white. 
And the lark bore his music out of sight. 
And the swallow outraced the racing wave, 
Up from the lonely, outcast grave 
Sprouted a lily, straight and high, 
Such as She bears to whom men cr)', 

Ave Maria ! 

XII. 

None had planted it, no one knew 
How it had come there, why it grew ; 
Grew up strong, till its statclv stem 
Was crowned with a snow-white diadem, — 
One pure lily, round which, behold ! 
Was written by God in veins of gold. 

"Ave Maria ! " 

XI ri. 

Over the lily they built a shrine, 

Where are mingled the mystic bread and 

wine ; 
Shrine you may see in the little town 
That is snugly nestled 'twixt deep and down. 
Through the Breton land it hath wondrous 

fame. 
And it bears the unshriven idiot's name, 

Ave Maria. 

XIV. 

Hunchbacked, gibbering, blear-eyed, halt. 
From forehead to footstep one foul fault, 
Crazy, contorted, mindless-born, 
The gentle's pity, the cruel's scorn, 
Who shall bar you the gates of day. 
So you have simple faith to sav, 

Ave Maria? 
Cornhill Magazine ALFRED AUSTIN. 



THOMAS BECKET. 



From The Nineteenth Century. 
LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET.^ 

Among the earliest efforts of the mod- 
ern sacerdotal party in tlie Church of En- 
gland was an attempt to re-establish the 
memory of the martyr of Canterbury. The 
sacerdotal party, so far as their objects 
were acknowledged, aspired only to liber- 
ate the Church from bondage to the State. 
The choice of Becket as an object of ado- 
ration was a tacit confession of their real 
ambition. The theory of Becket was not 
that the Church had a right to self-admin- 
istration, but that the Church was the 
supreme administrator in this world, and 
perhaps in the next; that the secular 
sword as well as the spiritual had been de- 
livered to Peter; and that the civil power 
existed only as the delegate of Peter's 
successors. If it be true that the clergy 
are possessed in any real sense of super- 
natural powers ; if the "keys," as they are 
called, have been actually granted to them ; 
if through them, as the ordinary and ap- 
pointed channel, the will of God is alone 
made known to mankind — then Becket 
was right, and the High Churchmen are 
right, and kings and cabinets ought to be 
superseded at once by commissions of 
bishops. If, on the other hand, the clergy 
are but like other orders of priesthoods in 
other ages and countries — mere human 
beings set apart for peculiar functions, and 
tempted by the nature of those functions 
into fantastic notions of their own conse- 
quence — then these recurring conflicts 
between Church and State resolve them- 
selves into phenomena of social evolution, 
the common sense of mankind exerting 
itself to control a groundless assumption. 
To the student of human nature the story 
of such conflicts is always interesting — 
comedy and tragedy winding one into the 
other. They have furnished occasion for 
remarkable exhibitions of human character. 
And while Churchmen are raising up 
Becket as a brazen serpent, on which the 
world is to look to be healed of its incre- 
dulities, the incredulous world may look 
with advantage at him from its own point 

• Materials for the History of Thomas Becket^ 
Archbishop of Canterbury. Edited by James Craigie 
Robcrt!>«n, Canon of Canterbury. Published under 
the direction of the Master of the Rolls. 1876. 



of view, and, if unconvinced that be was a 
saint, may still find instruction in a study 
of his actions and his fate. 

We take advantage, then, of the publi- 
cation of new materials and the republica- 
tion of old materials in an accessible form 
to draw a sketch of Becket as he appears 
to ourselves ; and we must commence 
with an attempt to reproduce the mental 
condition of the times in whPch he lived. 
Humail nature is said to be always the 
same. It is no less true that human nature 
is continuously changing. Motives which 
in one age are languid and even unintel- 
ligible have been in another alive and all- 
powerful. To comprehend these differ- 
ences, to take them up into his imagina- 
tion, to keep them present before him as 
the key to what he reads, is the chief 
difficulty and the chief duty of the student 
of history. 

Characteristic incidents, particular things 
which men representative of their age 
indisputably did, convey a clearer idea than 
any general description. Let the reader 
attend to a few transactions which occurred 
either in Becket's lifetime, or immediately 
subsequent to it, in which the principal 
actors were persons known to himself. 

We select as the first a scene at Chinon 
in the year 1183. Henry Plantagenet, 
eldest son of Henry the Second, Prince of 
Wales as we should now call him, called 
then "the young king," for he was 
crowned in his father's lifetime, at that 
spot and in that year brought his dis- 
ordered existence to an end. His career 
had been wild and criminal. He had re- 
belled against his father again and again ; 
again and again he had been forgiven. In 
a fit of remorse he had taken the cross, 
and intended to go to Jerusalem. He 
forgot Jerusalem in the next temptation. 
He joined himself to Lewis of France, 
broke once more into his last and worst 
revolt, and carried fire and sword into 
Normandy. He had hoped to bring the 
nobles to his side ; he succeeded only in 
burning towns and churches, stripping 
shrines, and bringing general hatred on 
himself. Finding, we are told, that he 
could not injure his father as much as he 
had hoped to do, he chafed himself into a 
fever, and the fever killed him. Feeling 



THOMAS BECKET. 



death to be near, he sent a message to his 
father, begging to see him. The old 
Henry, after past experience, dared not 
venture. The prince (I translate literally 
from a contemporary chronicler) — 

then called his bishops and religious men to 
his side. He confessed his siiis first in private, 
then openly to all who were present. He was 
absolved. He gave his cross to a friend to 
carry to the ^oly Sepulchre. Then, throwing 
off his soft clothing, he put on a shirt of hair, 
tied a rope about his neck, and said to the 
bishops, — 

" By this rope I deliver over myself, a guilty 
and unworthy sinner, to you the ministers of 
God. Through your intercession and of his 
own ineffable mercy, I beseech our Lord 
Jesus Christ, who forgave the thief upon the 
cross, to have pity on my unhappy soul." 

A bed of ashes had been prepared on the 
floor. 

" Drag me," he went on, " by this rope out 
of this bed, and lay me on the ashes." 

The bishops did so. They placed at his 
head and at his feet two large square stones, 
and so he died. 

There is one aspect of the the twelfth cen- 
tury — the darkest crimes and the most 
real superstition side by side co-existing 
in the same character. 

Turn from Chinon to Oxford, and go 
back seventeen years. Men who had so 
little pity on themselves were as pitiless to 
others. We quote from Stowe. The 
story is authenticated by contemporary 
chroniclers. 

1 166. There came into England thirty Ger- 
mans, as well m^n as women, who called them- 
selves Publicans. Their head and ruler, 
named Gerardus, was somewhat learned ; the 
residue very rude. They denied matrimony 
and the sacraments of baptism and the Lord^s 
Supper, with other articles. They being ap- 
prehended, the king caused a council to be 
called at Oxford, where the said Gerard an- 
swered for all his fellows, who being pressed 
with Scripture answered concerning their faith 
as they had been taught, and would not dis- 
pute thereof. After they could by no means 
be brought from their errours, the bishop gave 
sentence against them, and the king com- 
manded that they should be marked with a 
hot iron in the forehead and whipped, and 
that no man should succour them with house- 
room or otherwise. They took their punish- 
ment gladly, their captain going before them 



singing, ''Blessed are ye when men hate 
you." They were marked both in the fore- 
bead and the chin. Thus being whipped and 
thrust out in winter, they died with cold, no 
man relieving them. 

To the bishops of Normandy Henry 
Plantagenet handed the rope to drag him 
to his death-bed of ashes. Under sen- 
tence from the bishops of England these 
German heretics were left to a fate more 
piteous than the stake. The privilege and 
authority of bishops and clergy was 
Becket's plea for convulsing Europe. 
What were the bishops and clergy like 
themselves ? We will look at the bishops 
assembled at the Council of Westminster 
in the year 1 176. Cardinal Hugezun had 
come as legate from Rome. The council 
was attended by the two archbishops, each 
accompanied by his suffragans, the abbots, 
priors, and clergy of his province. Before 
business began, there arose dira lis et 
contention a dreadful strife and contention 
between these high personages as to 
which archbishop should sit on the car- 
dinal's right hand. Richard of Canter- 
bury said the right was with him. Roger 
of York said the right was with him. 
Words turned to blows. The monks of 
Canterbury, zealous for their master, 
rushed upon the Archbishop of York, flung 
him down, kicked him, and danced upon 
him till he was almost dead. The car- 
dinal wrung his hands, and charged the 
Archbishop of Canterbury with having set 
them on. The Archbishop of York made 
his way, bruised and bleeding, to the king. 
Both parties in the first heat appealed to 
the pope. Canterbury on second thoughts 
repented, went privately to the cardinal, 
and bribed him into silence. The appeal 
was withdrawn, the affair dropped, and 
the council went on with its work. 

So much for the bishops. We may add 
that Becket's friend John of Salisbury 
accuses the Archbishop of York, on com- 
mon notoriety, of having committed the 
most infamous of crimes, and of having 
murdered the partners of his guilt to con- 
ceal it.* 

As to the inferior clergy, it might be 

* John of Salisbury to the Archbishop of Sens, 1 171. 
The Archbishop of York is spoken of under the name 
of Caiaphas. 



THOMAS BECKET. 



enough to quote the language used about 
them at the conference at Montmiraux in 
1 169, where their general character was 
said to be atrocious, a great number of 
them being church-robbers, adulterers, 
highwaymen, thieves, ravishers of virgins, 
incendiaries, and murderers.* For spe- 
cial illustration we take a visitation of 
St. Augustine's Abbey at Canterbury in 
the year 11 73, undertaken by the pope's 
order. The visitors reported not only 
that the abbot was corrupt, extravagant, 
and tyrannical, but that he had more chil- 
dren than the patriarchs, in one village as 
many as ten or twelve bastards. " Velut 
equus hinnit in faminas^^ they said, 
'* adeo impucUns ut libidinem nisi quam 
publicaverit voluptuosam esse non repu- 
tet, Matres et earundem filias incestat 
pariter. Fornicationis abusum comparat 
necessitatis''^ This precious abbot was 
the host and entertainer of the four 
knights when they came to Canterbury. 

From separate pictures we pass to a 
sketch of the condition of the Church of 
England written by a monk of Christ 
Church, Canterbury, a contemporary of 
Becket, when the impression of the martyr- 
dom was fresh, and miracles were worked 
by his relics every day under the writer's 
eyes. The monk's name was Nigellus. 
He was precentor of the cathedral. His 
opinion of the wonders of which he was 
the witness may be inferred from the shrug 
of the shoulders with which, after describ- 
ing the disorders of the times, he says that 
they were but natural, for the age of mira- 
cles was past. In reading him we feel 
that we are looking on the old England 
through an extremely keen pair of eyes. 
We discern too, perhaps, that he was a 
clever fellow, constitutionally a satirist, 
and disappointed of promotion, and we 
make the necessary allowances. Two of 
his works survive, one in verse, the other 
in serious prose. 

The poem, which is called " Speculum 
Stultorum " (** The Looking-Glass of 

• ** Quum tamen clerid Immandiuimi et atrocissimi 
sunt, utpote qui ex magn& parte &acrilegi, adulter!, 
praedones, fures, raptores virginum, incendiarii, et 
bom-cidae sunt." —John of Salisbury to the Bishop of 
]k".cter. Letters, 1169. 



Fools"), contains the adventures of a 
monk who leaves his cloister to better his 
fortunes. The monk is introduced under 
the symbolic disguise of an ass. His 
ambition is to grow a longer tail, and 
he wanders unsuccessfully over Europe, 
meeting as many misfortunes as Don 
Quixote, in pursuit of his object. Finally 
he arrives at Paris, where he resolves to 
remain and study, that at all events he 
may write after his name magister artium. 
The seven years' course being finished, he 
speculates on his future career. He de- 
cides on the whole that he will be a bishop, 
and pictures to himself the delight of his 
mother when she sees him in his pontifi- 
cals. Sadly, however, he soon remem- 
bers that bishops were not made of such 
stuff as learned members of the universi- 
ties. Bishops were born in barons' cas- 
tles, and named as children to the sees 
which they were to occupy. " Little 
Bobby " and " little Willy " were carried 
to Rome in their nurses' arms before 
they could speak or walk, to have the keys 
of heaven committed to them. So young 
were they sometimes that a wit said once 
that it could not be told whether the 
bishop elect was a boy or a girl* An 
abbey might suit better, he thought, and 
he ran over the various attractions of the 
different orders. All of them were more 
or less loose rogues, some worse, some 
better.f On the whole the monk-ass con- 
cluded that he would found a new order, 
the rules of which should be compounded 
of the indulgences allowed to each of the 
rest. The pope would consent if ap- 
proached with the proper temptations ; 

* " Ante prius patrem primum matremque vocare 

Quam sciat, aut possit stare vel ire pedes, 
Suscipit ecclesisc claves animasque regendas. 

In cunis positus dummodo vagit adhuc 
Cum nutrice sul, Romam Robekinus adibit, 

Quem nova sive vetus sportula tecta feret ; 
Missus et in peram veniet Wilekinus in urbem, 

Curia Romana tota videbit eum. 
Irapuberes pueros pastores ecclesiarum 

Vidimus effectos pontificesque saci-os. 
Sic dixit quidam de quodam pontificando, 

Cum princeps regni solicitaret eum : 
* Est puer, et nondum discernere possumus utrum 

Foemina vel mas est, et modo prxsul erit.' " 
— " Satirical Poems of the Twelfth Century," vol. i., 

p. 106. 

t " Omnes sunt fures, quocunque characterc sacro 
Signati vcniant magnificeutque Deum.*' 



6 THOMAS BECKET. 

and he was picturing to himself the de- Bologna, and come back knowing medi- 

lightful life which he was thenceforth to cine and law and speaking pure French 

lead, when his master found him and cud- and Italian. Clever fellows, so furnished, 

gelled him back to the stable. contrived to rise by pushing themselves 

More instructive, if less amusing, is the into the service of bishop or baron, to 

prose treatise *' Contra Curiales et Officia- whom ** they were as eyes to the blind and 

Us Clcricos^^ ("Against Clerical Courtiers as feet to the lame." They managed the 

and Officials"), dedicated to De Long- great man's business; they took care of 

champ, Bishop of Ely, Coeur de Lion's his health. They went to Rome with his 

chancellor, who was left in charge of the appeals, undertook negotiations for him 

realm when Richard went to Palestine, in foreign courts, and were repaid in time 

De Longchamp's rule was brief and by prebends and rectories. Others, in 

stormy. It lasted long enough, however, spiteof laws of celibacy, married a patron's 

to induce Nigellus to appeal to him for a daughter, and got a benefice along with 

reform of the Church, and to draw a pic- her. It was illegal, but the bishops 

ture of it which admirers of the ages of winked at it. Others made interest at 

faith may profitably study. Rome with the cardinals, and by them 

At wiiatever period we get a clear view were recommended home. Others con- 

of the Church of England, it was always trived to be of use to the king. Once on 

in terrible need of reform. In the twelfth the road to preferment the ascent was 

century it has been held to have been at easy. The lucky ones, not content with 

its best. Let us look then at the actual a church or two, would have a benefice in 

condition of it. every diocese in England, and would lie, 

According to Nigellus, the Church ben- cheat, "forget God, and not remember 

efices in England, almost without excep- man." Their first gains were spent in 

lion, were either sold by the patrons to bribes to purchase more, and nothing 

the highest bidders, or were given by could satisfy them. Fifteen or twenty 

them to their near relations. The pres- rectories were not enough without a stall 

entees entered into possession more gen- in each cathedral. Next must come a 

erally even than the bishops when chil- deanery, and then an archdeaconry, and 

dren. then " peradventure God will yet add unto 

me something more." 

Infants m cradles (says Nigellus) are made jhe " something more " was of course 

archdeacons, that out of the mouths of babes ^ bishopric, and Nigellus proceeds to de- 

^Slidlsttt^hrb^c^J^^^^^^^ rclrlfriesTol -"be|e methods t>ywhi?h such of these 

the Church. lie can bind and loose before he \^ offices were reached as had not been 

can speak, and has the keys of heaven before already assigned to favorites. The pre- 

he has the use of his understanding. At an fates expectant hung about the court, mak- 

age when an apple is more to him than a dozen ing presents, giving dinners, or offering 

churches, he is set to dispense the sacraments, their services tor difficult foreign embas- 

and the only anxiety about him is a fear that sies. Their friends meanwhile were pn 

he may die. He is sent to no school. He is idle the watch for sees likely to be vacant and 

and is never whipped. He goes to Paris to be inquiring into their values. The age and 

pohshed, where he learns "the essentials of a hellth o! the present occupants were dil- 

gentleman s education," dice and dominoes et > .1 . u j *i- * » r *u • *. .u 

cetera qua sequuniur. He returns to England ^gently watched ; the state of their teeth 

to hawk and hunt, and would that this were tjieir eyes, their stomachs, and reported 

the worst ! but he has the forehead of a harlot, disorders. If the accounts were conflict- 

and knows not to be ashamed. To such per- ing, the aspirant would go himself to the 

sons as these a bishop without scruple com- spot under pretence of a pilgrimage. If 

mits the charge of souls — to men who arc the wretched bishop was found inconven- 

given over to the flesh, who rise in the morn- iently vigorous, rumors were spread that 

ing to eat, and sit down at evening to drink, he was shamming youth, that he was as 

who spend on loose women the offerings of old as Nestor, and was in his dotage; if 

the faithful, who do things which make their 1,^ „,^^ ;«<:..«, :♦ ...^0 r,^\A *u«* ^^^ ^..Lu*. 

people blush to speak of them, while they he was infirm, it was said that men ought 

themselves look for the Jordan to flow into not to remain in positions of which they 

their mouths, and expect each day to hear a could not discharge the duties ; they 

voice say to them, " Friend, go up higher." should go into a cloister. The king and 

the primate should see to it. 

Those who had no money to buy their If intrigue failed, another road was 

way with, and no friends to help them, tried. The man of the world became a 

were obliged to study something. Having saint. He retired to one or other of his 

done with Paris they would go on to churches. He was weary of the earth and 



THOMAS BECKET. f 

its vanities, and desired to spend his re- He can spealt no English — Augustine could 
maining days in meditating upon heaven, speak no English, yet Augusiine cunveried 
The court dress, was laid aside. The Britain. He is married and has a wife— the 
wolf clothed himself in a sheepskin, and "Postjes ordered such lo be promoied. He 
the talk was only o£ prayers and ostenta- J^ d'vo.ced his wife -Christ separaied St 
eious Charities Vgg'ar/ were fed in .he i^'^:::';^^}^:^^-^-^^ 
streets, the naked were covered, the sick ^^ ,^^-^^, ^^^^ „[ ,,,1, ^g^ld to confound 
were visitetl, the dead were buried. The ,he tiise. He ia a coward — tit. ifoscph was 
rosy face grew pale, the plump cheeks a coward. He is a glutton and a wine- 
became thin, and the admiring public ex- bibber — so Christ was said to lie. He is a 
claimed, "Who was hke unto this man to sluggard — St. Peter could not remain for an 
keep the law of the Most High?" Final- hour awake- He is a striker — Peter struck 
ly some religious order was entered in M.^lchus. He is quarrelsome — Paul quar- 
such a manner that it should be heard of """* "'."'' "Barnabas. He is disobedient to 
..ety^where. Vow, were taken with a. '.IZ^SZl^i'-iZlSirCk^S^ 
affectation of special austerities The He i. blind - so was Paul before he was con- 
worthyperson (who cannot see and hear ^jrled. He is dumb — Zacharias was dumb, 
him ?) would then bewail the desolations He is all faults, and possesses not a single vir- 
o! the Church, speak in a low, sad voice, tue — Godwin make his grace so mucli more 
sigh, walk slowly, and droop his eyehds ; to abound in him. 
kings were charged with tyranny, and -. . , j , j 
priests with inconfinency, and ail this that Such elotiuence lanti such advocates 
it might be spoken of In high places, that, "" {="«"%, irresistible. If, as some- 
when a sec was vacant at last, it might be """ happened, the crown had naincd a 
.aid to ihm, '■ Friend, go up higher , ' he P""" enceptionally in amous, or if the 
that humbleth himself shall be exalted.' '■ chapter was exceptionally obdurate, other 

"Such," said Nigellus,"are the steps measuti;s lay bebmd. Govcmrnent ofiE- 

in our days by which men go tip into the cers would comedown and talk of enemies 

house of the I-ord." By oSe or other of '"'*". commonwealth. A bishop of an 

these courses success was at last attained ; ""Ipming see would hint at excommunica- 

the recommendation of the crown was "on. The ttanons ivere worked on sepa- 

secnred, and the nomination was sent to rately, bribed, coaxed, or threatened. The 

the chapter. But the ««^/ ,f V//r-e was yoii"gef of them were promised the places 

not yet peremptory. The forms of liberty of the semors. The seniors were prom- 

•liii retained some shadow of life in them, iM'.'resli ofBces for themselves antt pro- 

and fresh efiort. were required to obtain "i"'"" ''', '>•'" relabons. If there iver. 

the consent of the electors. The religious "." ""'''^"'" ",""' '""> P"""' '*?"' "*• 

orders were the persons used on these oc- 5""t?°'',i"'l '"W," '""' S^'"''' "" 

casions to produce the required eBecii day. Finally the field was won Decent 

and flights of Templars, CiJtercians, Car- members of the chapter sighed over the 

thusiais, hurried to the cathedral city to "''■S'ace but rejected that miracles conld 

persuadi the canons that the pilor "« '' '""'"^ '«;■• Tjie see could not 

whom they Dad never seen or never heard """I"..™";' "" " "i" ' "" ■'' '" '""J"" 

of, excepi by rumor, had motri virtues '? <<" \J'">J'" •!«" '"•"■ J" de- 

tban existed together in any other human ?",f- ™ ''••"" was dec bred, the 

being, NigeUus humorously describes bells rang, the organ pealed, and the choir 

the finguage in which these spiritual jack- ''S,"' ^' ?'""■ 

als portrayed their patron's merits. ' The one touch necessary to complete 

He is a John the Baptist for sanctity, a Cato "" '"= "" "" "'*'' ' ~ 
for wisdom, a Tuily for eloquence, a Moses for The bishop elect, all in tears for joy, ex- 
meekness, a Phineas tor «al, an Abraham for claims, " Depart from me, for I am a sinful 
faith.' Elect him only, and he is all that you man. Depart from me, for I am unworthy. I 
can desire. You ask what he has done to rcc- cannot bear the burden which you lay upon 
ommend him. Granted that he has done me. Alas for my calamity I Let me alone, 
nothing. God can raise sons (o Abraham out my beloved brethren — let me alone in my 
of the stones. He is a boy, you say, and loo humble stale. Vou know not what you da" 
young for such an office — Daniel was a boy ... He falls back and aSecta to swoon. He 
when he saved Susannah from the elders. He is borne to the archbishop lo be consecrated. 
is of low birih — you arc choosing a successor Other bishops are summoned to assist, and all 
to a fisherman, not an heii 10 Cxsar. He is a is &nished.t 
dwarf —Jeremiah was not large. He js illit- 
erate— Peter and Andrew were nol philos- • "NdBmnlh»cniir»cuIonimteBipora." 
ophets when they were called to be apostle*. I Now ud then ii kappened thai buhspi nioMd to 



8 THOMAS BECKET. 

The. scene now chaB|;ed. The object So far Nigellus. We are not to sop- 
was gnined, the mask was dropped, and pose that the state of the Church had 
the bishop, having reached the goal of chanced unfavorably in the twenly years 
his ambition, could afford to show himself which followed Becltet's martyrdom, or 
in his true colors, we should have to conclude that the spir- 
itual enthusiasm which the martyrdom 

He has bound himself ^oes on Nigellus] to undoubtedly enciled had injured, and not 
be a teacher of his flock. How can he teach improved, public morality, 
those whom he sees but once a year, and not a The prelates and clergy with whom 
hundredth piri of whom he even sees at all ? Hgnry the Second contended, if different 
H any one m the diocese wants the bishop, he ^j all from those of the next generation, 
r'h'.Ir: ats^;:nrSr,"£"^"^^ ™-t have been rather worse th'an better, 
I^U> (not without being bored). The rest of ^""^ "«. '^^^f^ *",''«, ^ui^prised at the lan- 
■ ■ 'ire. and gusgc i" which the king spoke of them at 



.__ . ,,. . . .„_...jt the Slate, the 

Rome protects him if he is willing to pay foi Church, from the Vatican to Ihe smallest 

it At Rome the abbot buys his freedom from archdeaconry, was saturated with venality. 

the control of the bisho[i j Ihe bishop buys his -phe bishops were mere men of the world, 

freedom from the control of Ihearchbishop. The Church benefices were publicly 

^^^''t°^c4'rrn^u'^:nnWs'tintut'h ^^^ ' rch^^enr h T^ '^1^ 

him at council from a peer. The layman ™>on to children or held in indefinite 

swears, the bishop swears, and the bishop numbers by ambitious men who cared 

swears the liardesL The layman hunts, the only for wealth and power. The mass of 

bishop hunts. The layman hawks, Ihe bishop the common clergy were ignorant, dis- 

hawks, liishop and layman sit side by side at solute, and lawless, unable to be legally 

council and treasury boards. Bishop and lay- married, and living with concubines in 

manridosidebysideintobaitle.* What will contempt or evasion of their own rules, 

not bishops do f Was ever crime more airo- ]„ character and conduct the laity were 

<nous than that which w«latdy committed m superior to (he clergy. They had wives, 

'^„T^lllV^Z'L^.^^i\^'^^ anS were therefore fL promote. They 



the monks? I. Nigellus, saw nith my own '">''« °° pretensions lo mysterious power 

eyes, after the monks were ejected, harlots and responsibilities, and therefore they 

openly introduced into the cloister and chapter- were not hypocrites. Thev were violent, 

house to lie all night there, as in a brothel, they were vicious, yet they had the hind of 

with their paramours.f Such are the works of belief in the truth of religion which bound 

bishops in these days of ours. This is what ihe rope about young Henry's neck and 

they do, or permit to be done ; and so cheap dragged him from his bed to die upon the 

has grown the drgni.y of the ecclesi^tical ^shes, which sent them in tens of thou- 
ordertl^t youw,]l easier tind a cowherd well ^ -^ „„ the Syrian sands to 

S*T E''„'/m,rfrn,C«; ■"'!'«'"'•"» recover the sepulchre of cLst from the 

duck than a literate parson. . rj i -n ii i. j ., ■ 

■^ mfidel. The life beyond the grave was 
as assured to them as the life upon earth. 

«tnod on ihne omripnn when (he wnon lo bt con- ]n the sacraments and in the priest's 

!!?i':!i.".".°^l°?.'"?Jr,;."f;'°,^..:.?^«*li".' ^r.}}":^. absolution Uy the one hope of escaping 
eternal destruction. And while ibey could 

™»..d»«.„-....™.,.....„.™.,. wh.; !«1 ™r..|»ct lor the clergy asm., the;, 

ilwT iKiii oa viiiiatino, and children wVre brouRhi la feared their powers and reverenced their 

ifc«mtob«ffliilirnirf,ilieyiave»i[i!nerji bieMingand office. Both of lajty and clergy the relig- 

;SS-r,"d.SS.tomdS';™TS,.5S i" "" » ^"Pentltion, but In the kit, 

.tkcu occuioo. "Hon enim etat «i ut pliritqu, the superstition was combined With rever- 

ij™oaif«Koinnii™™i»™.mn...^^ ^oce, and implied a real belief in the 

iCQiinrinatiDDai eqao lotidendo peraure, ted ob ucra- .. . ' .,_ -. t- i .. i_ ,. j 

nnii nnaraiioncm (quo detilin cl ■landa puEnsma- divine authority which It symbohicd. 

.DBiD impontre." ('■MiuHili ioi the HUiDiy ol The clergy, ihe Supposed depositaries of 

"iT'r'yS, „;.:■*#'»*., rf c™,, the s«pern»tural qualilie. uiignetl to 

.violenil:; expelled Ihe monki Irom Ihe cathedral ibsie, tbcm, found it probably more difiicult lo 

"l "^rtoJl*" o'ei." «fqS^5oi«. <i tri«i. ad- believe in themselves, and the unreality 

■nodum rtfero quod in «xi«ii Coveninou ocuiia revenged Itself upon their natures. 
P«*p"i'.»lP"i'- inciji?>in>«napiiiiioi.idi(^eiaiH Bearing JQ mind thesc qualKies iH the 

'i™"tiJii'^lne'™%aoo^dB3>£^^'°LBigSiI two orders, wc proceed to the history of 

juii." Becket 



THOMAS BECKET. 



Thomas Becket was born in London in 
the year 1 1 18.* His father, Gilbert Becket, 
was a citizen in moderate circumstances. f 
His name denotes Saxon extraction. Few 
Normans as yet were to be found in the 
English towns condescending to trade. 
Of his mother nothingauthentic is known,t 
except that she was a religious woman 
who brought up her children in the fear of 
God. Many anecdotes are related of his 
early years, but the atmosphere of legend 
in which his history was so early envel- 
oped renders them all suspicious. His 
parents, at any rate, both died when he 
was still very young, leaving him, ill 
provided for. to the care of his father's 
friends. One of them, a man of wealth, 
Richard de I'Atgle, took charge of the 
tall, handsome, clever lad. He was sent 
to school at Merton Abbey, in Surrey, and 
afterwards to Oxford. In his vacations 
he was thrown among young men of rank 
and fortune, hunting and hawking with 
them, cultivating his mind with the ease 
of conscious ability, and doubtless not 
inattentive to the events which were going 
on around him. In his nursery he must 
have heard of the sinking of the White 
Ship in the Channel with Henry the 
First's three children. Prince William, his 
brother Richard, and their sister. When 
he was seven ^'ears old, he may have lis- 
tened to the jests of the citizens at his 
father's table over the misadventure in 
London of the cardinal legate, John of 
Crema. The legate had come to England 
to preside at a council and pass laws to 
part the clergy from their wives. While 
the council was going forward, his Emi- 
nence was himself detected in re meretri- 
cid^ to general astonishment and scandal. 
In the same year the emperor Henry died. 
His widow, the English Matilda, came 
home, and was married again soon after 
to Geoffrey of Anjou. In 1134 the En- 
glish barons swore fealty to her and her 
young son, afterwards King Henry the 
Second. The year following her father 
died. Her cousin, Stephen of Blois, 
broke his oath and seized the crown, and 
general distraction and civil war followed, 
while from beyond the seas the Levant 
ships, as they came up the river, brought 
news of bloody battles in Syria and slaugh- 
ter of Christians and infidels. To live in 

• Or 11x9. The exact date is uncertain. 

t " Nee omnino infimi" are Becket's words as to the 
rank of his parents. 

X The story that she was a Saracen is a late legend. 
Becket was afterwards taunted with the lowness of his 
birth. The absence of any allusion to a fact so curious 
if it was true, either in the taunt or in Becket's reply 
10 it, may be taken as condaaive. 



Stirring times is the best education of .1 
youth of intellect. After spending three 
years in a house of business in the city, 
Becket contrived to recommend himself to 
Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury. 
The archbishop saw his talents, sent him 
to Paris, and. thence to Bologna to study 
law, and employed him afterwards in the 
most confidential negotiations. The de- 
scription by Nigellus of the generation of 
a bishop might have been copied line for 
line from Becket's history. The question 
of the day was the succession to the 
crown. Was Stephen's son, Eustace, the 
heir? Or was Matilda's son, Henry of 
Anjou ? Theobald was for Henry, so far 
as he dared to show himself. Becket was 
sent secretly to Rome to move the pope. 
The struggle ended with a compromise. 
Stephen was to reign for his life. Henry 
was peaceably to follow him. The arrange- 
ment miglit have been cut a^in by the 
sword. But Eustace immediately after- 
wards died. In the same year Stephen 
followed him, and Henry the Second be- 
came king x)f England. With all these 
intricate negotiations the future martyr 
was intimately connected, and by his 
remarkable talents especially recommend- 
ed himself to the new king. No one 
called afterwards to an important position 
had better opportunities of acquainting 
himself with the spirit of the age, or the 
characters of the principal actors in it.* 
If his services were valuable, his reward 
was magnificent. He was not a priest, but, 
again precisely as Nigellus describes, he 
was loaded with lucrative Church bene- 
fices. He was provost of Beverley, he 
was archdeacon of Canterbury, he was 
rector of an unknown number of parishes, 
and had stalls in several cathedrals. It is 
noticeable that afterwards, in the heat of 
the battle in which he earned his saintship, 
he was so far from looking back with 
regret on this accumulation of preferments 
that he paraded them as an evidence of 
his early consequence.f A greater rise 



* Very strange things were continually happening, 
lu 1154 the Archbishop of York was poisoned in the 
Eucharist by some of his clergy. ** Eodem anno Wii- 
helmus Eboracensis archiepiscopus, prodirione clerico- 
rum suorum post perceptionem Eucharistix infra ablu- 
tiones liquore lethali infectus, extinctus est." (Hove- 
den, vol. i.. p. a 13.) Becket could not fail to have 
heard of this piece of villany and to have made his 
own reflections upon it. 

t Foliot, bishop of London, told him that he owed 
his rise in life to the king. Becket replied : " Ad tem- 
pus QUO me rex ministerio suo przstitit, archidiacona- 
tus Cantuarensis, prspositura Beverlaci. plurimie ec> 
clesise, pr^ebendx nonnuUae, alia etiam nou pauca quas 
nominis mei erant possessio tunc temporis, adeo tenuem 
ut dicis, quantum ad ea quae mundi sunt, contradicunt 
me fuisse." 



10 



THOMAS BECKET. 



lay immediately before him. Henry the 
Second was twenty-two years old at his 
accession. At this time he was the most 
powerful prince in western Europe. He 
was Duke of Normandy and Count of 
Anjou. His wife Eleanor, the divorced 
queen of Lewis of France, had brought 
with her Aquitaine and Poilou. The 
reigning pope, Adrian the Fourth, was an 
Englishman, and, to the grief and perplex- 
ity of later generations of Irishmen, gave 
the new king permission to add the Island 
of the Saints to his already vast domin- 
ions. Over Scotland the English raon- 
archs asserted a semi-feudal sovereignty, 
to which Stephen, at the Battle of the 
Standard, had given a semblance of reality. 
Few English princes have commenced 
their career with fairer prospects than the 
second Henry, 

The state of England itself demanded 
his first attention. The usurpation of 
Stephen had left behind it a legacy of dis- 
order. The authority of the crown had 
been shaken. The barons, secure behind 
the walls of their castles, limited their 
obedience by their inclinations. The 
Church, an imperium in imperio^ however 
corrupt in practice, was aggressive as an 
institution, and was encroaching on the 
State with organized system. The princi- 

Cles asserted by Gregory the Seventh had 
een establishing themselves gradually for 
the past century, and in theory were no 
longer questioned. The power of the 
crown, it was freely admitted, was derived 
from God. As little was it to be doubted 
that the clergy were the ministers of God 
in a nearer and higher sense than a lay- 
man could pretend to be, holding as they 
did the power of the keys, and able to 
punish disobedience by final exclusion 
from heaven. The principle was simple. 
The application only was intricate. The 
clergy, though divine as an order, were as 
frail m their individual aspect as common 
mortals, as ambitious, as worldly, as licen- 
tious, as unprincipled, as violent, as wicked, 
as much needing the restraint of law and 
the policeman as their secular brethren, 
perhaps needing it more. How was the 
law to be brought to bear on a class of 
persons who claimed to be superior to 
law ? King Henry's piety was above sus- 
picion, but he was at all points a sovereign, 
especially impatient of anarchy. The con- 
duct of too many ecclesiastics, regular and 
secular alike, was entirely intolerable, and 
a natural impatience was spreading through 
the country, with which the king perhaps 
showed early symptoms of sympathizing. 
Archbishop Theobald, at any rate, was 



uneasy at the part which he might take, 
and thought that he needed some one at 
his side to guide him in salutary courses. 
At Theobald's instance, in the second year 
of Henry's reign, Becket became chancel- 
lor of England, being then thirty-seven 
years old. 

In his new dignity he seemed at first 
likely to disappoint the archbishop's ex- 
pectations of him. Some of his biogra- 
phers, indeed, claim as his perpetual merit 
that he opposed the bestias curies, or court 
wild beasts, as churchmen call the anti- 
clerical party. John of Salisbury, on the 
other hand, describes him as a magnificent 
trifler, a scorner of law and the clergy, and 
given to scurrilous jesting at laymen's 
parties.* At any rate, except in the arbi- 
trariness of his character, he showed no 
features of the Becket of Catholic tradi- 
tion. 

Omnipotent as Wolsey after him, he was 
no less magnificent in his outward bearing. 
His dress was gorgeous, his retinue of 
knights as splendid as the king's. His 
hospitalities were boundless. His expen- 
diture was enormous. How the means 
for it were supplied is uncertain. The 
revenue was wholly in his hands. The 
king was often on the Continent, and at 
such times the chancellor governed every- 
thing. He retained his church benefices 
— the archdeaconry of Canterbury cer- 
tainly, and probably the rest. Vast sums 
fell irregularly into Chancery from ward- 
ships and vacant sees and abbeys. All 
these Becket received, and never account- 
ed for the whole of them. Whatever 
might be the explanation, the wealthiest 
peer in England did not maintain a more 
costly household, or appear in public with 
a more princely surrounding. 

Of his administration his adoring and 
admiring biographer, the monk Grim, who 
was present at his martyrdom, draws a 
more than unfavorable picture, and even 
charges him with cruelty and ferocity. 
** The persons that he slew," says Grim, 
" the persons that he robbed of their prop- 
erty, no one can enumerate. Attended 
by a large company of knights, he would 
assail whole communities, destroy cities 
and towns, villages and farms, and, witli- 
out remorse or pity, would give them to 
devouring flames." \ 

* *'Dum magnificus erat nugator in curid, dum legit 
videbatur contemptor et cieri, dum scurriles cum poten- 
tioribus sectabatur ineptias, magnus habebatnr clams 
erat et acceptus omnibus." — John of Salisbury to the 
Bishop of Exeter. Letters, 1 166. 

t "Quantis autem necem, quantis rerum omnium 
proscriptionera intulerit, quis enumeret ? Validi nam- 
que stipatus militom manu civitates aggreasus est. 



THOMAS BECKET. 



II 



Such words give a new aspect to the 
demand afterwards made that he should 
answer for his proceedings as chancellor, 
and lend a new meaning to his unwilling- 
ness to reply. At this period the only 
virtue which Grim allows him to have pre- 
served unsullied was his chastity. 

In foreign politics he was meanwhile as 
much engaged as ever. The anomalous 
relations of the king with Lewis the 
Seventh, whose vassal he was for his Con- 
tinental dominions, while he was his supe- 
rior in power, were breaking continually 
into quarrels, and sometimes into war. 
The anxiety of Henry, however, was 
always to keep the peace, if possible. In 
1 157 Becketwas sent to Paris to negotiate 
an alliance between the Princess Mar- 
^ret, Lewis's daughter, and Henry's 
eldest son. The prince was then seven 
years old, the little lady was three. Three 
years later they were actually married, two 
cardinals, Henry of Pisa and William of 
Pavia, coming as legates from the pope to 
be present on the august occasion. France 
and England had been at that time drawn 
together by a special danger which threat- 
ened Christendom. In 11 59 Pope Adrian 
died. Alexander the Third was chosen to 
succeed him with the usual formalities, but 
the election was challenged by Frederic 
Barbarossa, who set up an antipope. The 
Catholic Church was split in two. Fred- 
eric invaded Italy, Alexander was driven 
out of Rome and took shelter in France 
at Sens. Henry and Lewis gave him their 
united support, and forgot their own quar- 
rels in the common cause. Henry, it was 
universally admitted, was heartily in ear- 
nest for Pope Alexander. The pope, on 
his part, professed a willingness and an 
anxiety to be of correspondmg service to 
Henry. The king considered the moment 
a favorable one for taking in hand the re- 
form of the clergy, not as against the 
Holy See, but with the Holy See in active 
co-operation with him. On this side he 
anticipated no difficulty if he could find a 
proper instrument at home, and that in- 
strument he considered himself to possess 
in his chancellor. Where the problem 
was to reconcile the rights of the clergy 
with the law of the land, it would be con- 
venient, even essential, that the chancellor- 
ship and the primacy should be combined 
in the same person. Barbarossa was find- 
ing the value of such a combination in 
Germany, where, with the Archbishop of 
Cologne for a chancellor of the empire, 

pelevit urbes et oppida ; villas et przdia absque misera- 
tionis intuitu voraci consumpsitincendio." (*' Materials 
for the History of Thomas JBecket," voL ii., pp. 364~50 



he was carrying out an ecclesiastical revo- 
lution. 

It is not conceivable that on a subject of 
such vast importance the king should have 
never taken the trouble to ascertain Bcck- 
et*s views. The condition of the clergy 
was a pressing and practical perplexity. 
Becket was his confidential minister, the 
one person whose advice he most sought 
in any difficulty, and on whose judgment 
he most relied. Becket, in all probability, 
must have led the king to believe that he 
agreed with him. There can be no doubt 
whatever that he must have allowed the 
king to form his plans without having ad- 
vised him against them, and without hav- 
ing cautioned him that from himself there 
was to be looked for nothing but opposi- 
tion. The king, in fact, expected no 
opposition. So far as he Ivad known 
Becket hitherto, he had known him as a 
statesman and a man of the world. If 
Becket had ever in this capacity expressed 
views unfavorable to the king's intentions, 
he would not have failed to remind him of 
it in their subsequent controversy. That 
he was unable to appeal for such a pur- 
pose to the king's recollection must be 
taken as a proof that he never did express 
unfavorable views. If we are not to sap- 
pose that he was deliberately insincere, 
we may believe that he changed his opin- 
ion in consequence of the German schism. 
But even so an honorable man would have 
given his master warning of the alteration, 
and it is certain that he did not. He did, 
we are told, feel some scruples. The 
ecclesiastical conscience had not wholly 
destroyed the human conscience, and the 
king had been a generous master to him. 
But his difficulties were set aside by the 
casuistries of a Roman legate. Arch- 
bishop Theobald died when the two cardi- 
nals were in Normandy for the marriage 
of Prince Henry and the princess Mar- 
garet. There was a year of delay before 
the choice was finally made. Becket 
asked the advice of Cardinal Henry of 
Pisa. Cardinal Henry told him that it was 
for the interest of the Church that he 
should accept the archbishopric, and that 
he need not communicate convictions 
which would interfere with his appoint- 
ment. Thpy probably both felt that, if 
Becket declined, the king would find some 
other prelate who would be more pliant in 
his hands. Thus at last the decision was 
arrived at. The empress Matilda warned 
her son against Becket's dangerous char- 
acter, but the warning was in vain. The 
king pressed the archbishopric on Becket, 
and Becket accepted it. The chief justice 



\ 



12 



PAULINE. 



Richard ^e Luci went over with three 
bishops to Canterbury in the spring of 
li62togain the consent of the chapter; 
the chapter yielded not without reluctance. 
The clergy of the province gave their ac- 
quiescence at a council held afterwards at 
Westminster, but with astonishment, mis- 
giving, and secret complaints. Becket at 
this time was not even a priest, and was 
known only to the world as an unscrupu- 
lous and tyrannical minister. The con- 
sent was given, however. The thing was 
done. On the 2nd of June (1162) Becket 
received his priest's orders from the 
Bishop of Rochester. On the 3rd he was 
consecrated in his own cathedral. 

J. A. Froude. 



From Blackwood's Mai(asioe. 
PAULINE. 

BLUNDELLS AYE. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

LITTLE THINGS PUT TOGETHER. 
Les absens ont toujours tort. 

The day of departure came at length, 
and, with a throb of delight, Pauline hailed 
it as a day of release. 

Much, of course, was said about inter- 
course for the future; rides and drives 
were planned, and invitations were prop- 
erly given and accepted. 

This would, however, tone down with 
time ; nothing definite was fixed upon ; 
and she had, at all events, the satisfaction 
of hoping that she might never again be 
compelled to pass so long a period under 
the same roof with people whose tastes 
and feelings were so out of harmony with 
her own.. 

For Charlotte alone could she enter- 
tain some regard. Charlotte was sincere, 
and Charlotte had been kind to her. 

Minnie was too entirely the reflection of 
those around her at the moment, to be 
worth notice; Dot was her mother's 
child ; and that mother was — Mrs. Jer- 
myn. 

Of Mr. Jermyn, she could only feel that 
he had been unfortunate in his choice of 
a wife, but that, for no reason, was he en- 
titled to be fortunate. 

He was inferior in person and in man- 
ners, whilst his attainments were purely 
professional. He wore a civil smile, 
made a deferential bow, and said the rudest 
things without being in the least aware he 
was doing so. 



The near neighborhood of such con- 
nections, Pauline decidied, must ever be a 
drawback to the Grange. 

Had they been mere acquaintances, the 
distance — four miles — would have been 
sufficient to prevent too frequent intru- 
sion ; but it was evident that in the pres- 
ent instance it was to be accounted little 
of. 

Mrs. Wyndham's relations must be con- 
sidered, in a manner, hers. She must be 
subject, as her aunt would be, to early 
calls, interruptions at odd hours, and the 
other penalties of unceremoniousness be- 
tween two families. There would be inces- 
sant notes, arrangements for meeting, and 
for going into public in company. She 
foresaw, with a blush of mortification, 
that she might have again to follow Mrs. 
Jermyn into a room, and wait for her car- 
riage on Mr. Jermyn's arm. 

Charlotte would kiss her, pull her aside, 
and whisper ; Mrs. Jermyn would tap her 
with her fan, and beckon her up, to know 
with whom she had been talking. 

All this she had smarted under alreadv; 
and the chance of its recurrence was the 
only alloy in the pleasure with which she 
seated herself by her aunt's side, and 
looked back upon the cluster of faces 
around the hall-door. 

" Well, they have been very good and 
kind," commented Mrs. Wyndham, as the 
carriage rolled away, amid the vociferous 
" Good-byes " of the party on the door- 
step. "And whatever little faults we 
might find, Pauline, we will keep to our- 
selves. We have shared their hospitality, 
we have partaken of their *salt,' you 
know ; that will be sufficient for vou ; for 
me, they are relations of my dear husband, 
and in that light alone I will look upon 
them." 

Pauline was astonished and rebuked. 

" They are gone ! " cried Charlotte, 
coming back to the drawing room. " Gone ! 
And good luck go with them ! She is not 
a bad sort of girl, that Pauline. I have 
forgiven her defrauding me of Little Fen- 
nel, and Dolly, and alllier other sins ; she 
has expiated them by going to live with 
Aunt Camilla ! " 

Mrs. Jermyn, who had been airily wav- 
ing her hand and sending kisses after the 
retreating carriage, smiled no more di- 
rectly it was out of sight, and replied to 
her aaughter's tirade in a natural and cross 
voice. " Expiated 1 Nonsense ! I don't 
know what you mean. The girl has fallen 
on her feet, if ever any one did." 

" Humph ! " said Charlotte. '* That is 
the sort of fall in which one breaks the 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



13 



legs. When I fall on my feet, may all my 
bones be whole 1 " 

*' Going to a charming place like the 
Grange," continued her mother. "And 
Aunt Camilla making so much of her al- 
ready! Quite as if she were her own 
daughter I " 

" That*s what T said,'' observed her hus- 
band with complacency. " I told them 
they would be taken for mother and daugh- 
ter wherever they went." 

"Did you say it to Camilla? or to 
Pauline ? ^' 

"To both. I said it to them as they 
were going away." 

"Just what she would dislike of all 
things," muttered Mrs. Jermyn, under her 
breath. 

"Dislike it? Why should she dislike 
It? You said yourself this minute, that 
she treated her like a daughter." 

" And here is Charlotte thinks it would 
be a hardship to be so treated," replied 
his wife, aware that it would be useless to 
enter into explanations, and returning to 
the main point. " With every luxury at 
her command, a poor homeless girl — " 

" You would not like it yourself, mam- 
ma. At least, I daresay you would, but / 
should not And as for Pauline, she hates 
it like poison." 

" So she says J* 

" Says ? No ; she is not likely to say a 
thing like that I could not even tempt 
her to much smaller confidences. But 
any one with half an eye can see it for 
themselves. You must, mamma, if you 
did not choose to be blind." 

" But, oh," continued Charlotte, amuse- 
ment lighting up her countenance, " what 
a pair they are ! How could you, even 
yoUf mamma, say that they suited one an- 
other ? There they sat last night on the 
sofa, side by side. Aunt Camilla was 
smirking and smiling, and trying to get 
Pauline to tell her she was' young and 
pretty. Vou tell her so, mamma, every 
hour in the day; but Pauline — you have 
no idea how well she did it, or rather did 
not do it. She kept the little aunt in per- 
fect good-humor, and yet she never told a 
single fib ! Says Aunt Camilla, * My dear, 
what a pretty ha't ! What a becoming 
hat ! You look like an old picture — 
exactly like an old picture I One of 
the La Sartes come to life again! Our 
ancestors, you know, Pauline. The re- 
semblance is quite remarkable — quite.^ 
And so on. Says Pauline, in her slow, 
soft voice, * I am glad you like it, Aunt 
Camilla.' Evidently she would have worn 
a pie-dish on her head with equal content- 



ment But this did not suit the aunt at 
all, for the upshot of it was, that she 
wanted to be told it would become her. 
You must know that although part of her 
great and sudden attachment to Pauline 
consists in the belief that she is about 
to introduce to the world another Gun- 
ning, she has by no means made up her 
mind to sink gracefully into the back- 
ground herself. Indeed she means to 
shine all the more, * with the mild magic 
of reflected light.' " 

" I daresay Pauline was very rude and 
unkind about it Young people never 
seem to think that older ones can have 
any feeling on such subjects at all." 

"They went off together arm in arm 
afterwards, so I don't think the feelings 
can have been lacerated to any great ex- 
tent," said Charlotte. " My belief is, that 
they will shake together, in spite of every- 
thing, and Aunt Camilla will claim her 
half of every young man who finds his 
way over to tne Grange." 

" There is one young man who will find 
his way there, ana that ere long, or I am 
mistaken," observed Mrs. Jermyn. 

" One little man would be more to the 
purpose, if you mean Little Fennel," re- 
plied Charlotte. " Minnie," as her sister 
entered, " mamma thinks Little Fennel 
was hit hard. And so I daresay he was, 
for though I was his iirst love, I have 
never pretended to be his only one. He 
is not constant; 'pon my word, now, he 
isn't But then one can't be expected to 
be constant, when there's no return, can 
one ? " 

"Oh, don't begin in that stupid way," 
said Minnie; " there's no fun in it What 
were you going to say ? " 

" To say ? When ? " 

" When I came in. You were going to 
tell me something " 

" About Little Fennel. I was going to 
tell you that mamma said he " 

" I never mentioned Mr. Fennel, Char- 
lotte." 

" Oh, did you not ? Who was it then ? 
Dolly? I knew it was all up with Dolly 
directly I saw him come into the room ; 
but he was not allowed to usurp her, I can 
tell you. As for the beauty herself, I 
don't think she wished to be troubled with 
either of them." 

" Nor was I thinking of either of them," 
said her mother. 

*• No ? Well, I have come to an end of 
my guesses ; you must tell me." 

** I think I know," said the quieter 
Minnie. "Mr. Blundell ? " 

"Mr. Blundell! What are you both 



u 



PAULINE. 



dreaming of?" cried Charlotte, as her 
mother's smile showed that the right 
name had been spoken. " What put him 
into your heads ? Because she did not 
like to hear him spoken against behind 
his back ? You don't know that girl at all. 
She has not the wits to stand up for her- 
self, but she would not let any one else be 
attacked, and keep quiet It is a shame, 
too. I hate to hear the absent maligned, 
and given no chance of telling their ver- 
sion of the story ; it seems so mean. You 
might have known it was just the very 
thing to make Pauline fire up." 

" It seemed io be, indeed." 

" I call that unfair," exclaimed Char- 
lotte, still further roused to generosity of 
feeling by her mother's sneer. " Now 
you are turning upon her, mamma. She 
did not say a word that she might not 
have said for anybody — not a single 
word. And as for poor Ralph Blundell, I 
always feel inclined to take his part, for 
the very same reason. I believe the only 
cause of all the outcry against both the 
brothers was, that they were better born 
and better looking than the rest of their 
neighbors, and that they looked down 
upon the whole of us." 

" They could not well look down on Sir 
John and Lady Finch," said her mother, 
angrily. 

" Oh, Sir John is an old-fashioned old 
stick, who wants everybody to be as fusty 
and musty as he is himself. He will 
have some trouble in cutting Dolly's pretty 
curls to his straitlaced pattern. Dolly 
hankers after the fun at Blundellsaye." 

" Ills father will be very foolish if he 
gives in to him," retorted her mother. 
"No son of mine should consort with 
Ralph Blundell, if I could help it" 

" My dear mother, for two reasons your 
determination will never be put to the test. 
Firstly, because you have no son; and 
secondly, because, if you had a hundred, 
Monscigneur Ralph would never deign to 
take notice of one of them." 

" Do be quiet for a single minute, Char- 
lotte," said Minnie. " You talk on, and on, 
and no one else can get in a word. 
Mamma, what mad^ you say that about 
Pauline?" 

** What made you guess what I was 
goin^j to say ? " 

"Oh," replied Minnie astutely, "be- 
cause I had heard you say it before." 

" To whom ? " 

" To Aunt Camilla. I heard you hint- 
ing about him. I wanted to know how 
you took up the idea at first." 

*• Little things put together," replied her 



mother, rather hastily, as a little thing in 
the shape of Dot entered. " Nothing in 

C articular, I assure you. Now we have 
een idling here long enough. Come, 
Dot, and hold this skein of worsted for 



me. 



» 



She was not to be entrapped into fur- 
ther communications; and with an uneasy 
sensation of something wrong, she was 
aware, for the first time, that she would 
prefer none being made by any one else. 

Charlotte's burst of indignation she 
could not face. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

SIR JOHN FINCH. 

He has put on the strong armor of sickness, he is 
wrapped in the callous hide of suflFering ; he keeps 
his sympathy, like some curious vintage, under trusty 
lock ana key, for his own use only." 

It may have been observed that Mrs. 
Jermyn, whenever she had an opportunity 
of introducing the name of Sir John and 
Lady Finch into her conversation, did not 
fail to take advantage of it. 

As usually happens in such cases, 
where the acquaintanceship is assumed, 
on one side, to be esf>ecially close, her 
real knowledge of them was slight. 

She had no true perception into the 
character or habits of either ; but she had 
their visiting-cards on her table, she could 
describe the interior of their mansion- 
house, and she could command a bow 
when their carriage passed hers in the 
village. 

On this foundation she romanced at 
large to her less fortunate acquaintance ; 
for the Jermyns, although occasionally 
admitted to the neighboring country- 
houses, could not be said to be intimate 
at any, but lived chiefly in a small world 
of their own, composed of the occupants 
of villas and river-side cottages, of which 
a considerable number clustered round 
the hamlet at their gates. 

By these they were admired, envied, 
and imitated. 

To them would Mrs. Jermyn lay down 
the law, fearless of correction ; and her 
favorite topic was seldom far from her 
lips. 

Sir John's "little ways" were alluded 
to, and his " old-fashioned foibles " fc^polo- 

fized for, in a way that, could he have 
eard it, would have brought some of 
them strongly to the front. 

Lady Finch's " unfortunate shyness " 
was likewise tenderly dealt with. She 
was really more to be pitied than any one 
else. It wore off entirely, entirely ^ when 



BLUNDELLSAYE, 



IS 



alone with her friends. People called her 
proud, but such an appellation was, she 
need hardly assure them, altogether unde- 
served. She was a sweet woman. 

Even in allowing such little shortcom- 
ings, Mrs. Jermyn would appear to have a 
struggle with herself. She could not but 
be partial, be blind to anything amiss in 
such friends. Their interests, she owned, 
were hers. She called on all to partici- 
pate in their anxieties, demanded elation 
for their successes, mournfully claimed 
sympathy for their bereavements. 

Titbits of gossip concerning their " kind 
neighbors at the Hall " must always, she 
felt, have a superior interest to any other 
subject, for th§ little coterie of which she 
had constituted herself the queen. 

" Nice quiet folks, like ourselves," she 
would thus describe them. "Such stay- 
at-homes 1 Sir John never can be brough t 
to go anywhere. Lady Finch assures me 
she exhausts herself in vain. * Do, dear 
Mrs. Jermyn, ivy your persuasive powers,* 
she said to me the other night — we were 
dining there, you know; she began to me 
directly after dinner about it: *Sir John 
may listen to you,^ she was good enough 
to say. She, poor thing, is quite tired of 
the Hall, and would like to have a few 
weeks abroad. I sympathized with her 
entirely. It is hard on a wife, and such a 
devoted mie too, not to be considered more. 
Men, however, never are considerate. 
Sir John, deal good man, is a most excel- 
lent husband, to be sure, but he is like the 
rest in that respect. My persuasive pow- 
ers indeed!" bridling. "What could I 
say to that.** I could only reply, ' Indeed, 
my dear Lady Finch, I am not vain enough 
to imagine that where your persuasive 
powers have failed, mine would succeed.' 
She laughed at me, but we understand 
each other perfectly. Sir John is always 
most agreeable, most attentive; but I 
hope I know better than to misinterpret 
that politeness which is one of the dis- 
tinguishing marks of people of rank. 
Poor dear Mrs. Wyndham is perhaps a 
little apt to take such civilities as personal 
distinctions. My sister-in-law is a most 
amiable creature, but (to confidential ears) 
wanting, without doubt, in discretion, in 
judgment. She will, however, be the 
greatest possible addition to the neigh- 
borhood, and we will take care that she 
is not suffered to make herself ridiculous." 

On this point the orater would become 
diffuse, not to say prosy ; for although the 
glory of the Grange had become in a man- 
ner dimmed by the residence of Pauline 



therein, when not in her actual presence, 
Mrs. Jermyn still enjoyed much satisfac- 
tion from recounting details of the minage^ 
and enumerating the servants, the horses, 
the carriages, and the visitors of Mrs. 
Wyndham. 

The Finches had called, of course. 
They had called among the very first. 
So thoughtful — so like themselves. 

Mrs. Jermyn, however, did not know to 
whom she was ascribing honor. 

Dolly Finch had not only instigated his 
parents to the visit, but he had accom- 
panied them. 

He had been loud in his praises after- 
wards. What charming people they were ! 
What a delightful house it was to go to I 
Mrs. Wyndham so friendly, so easy! 
Such a nice, well-manered woman ! 

"Why are there not more like her?" 
cried tne young man, enthusiastically. 
" Usually if there is one thing in the world 
I hate more than another, it is to make a 
call. You give up your afternoon, and 
you ride four or five miles, and you have 
to get down and open half-a-dozen gates if 
you go up by a side entrance — besides 
the nuisance of the door-bell at the end — 
and all you get for your pains is a pair of 
cold fingers, and a seat on the ottoman, in 
the worst part of the whole room to get 
away from." 

"Humph!" returned his father, drily. 
"It seems to me there was another part 
of the room, very far from the ottoman, 
which you found still worse to get away 
from to-day. I found no difficulty in get- 
ting away from the ottoman, but 1 thought 
you were never coming out of that corner. 
And as for the house, it is all one abomi- 
nable draught. I have been shivering ever 
since I came out of it." 

" You were shivering before you went, 
sir ; you complained ot it this morning. 
You have caught cold, standing about in 
the farmyard yesterday." 

"It was not the farmyard; there was 
nothing in the farmyard to give me cold. It 
was those hot, unwholesome rooms " 

" Unwholesome ? They were delicious. 
The scent of the flowers '' 

" I tell you it was that made me ill ; I 
know it was. Nasty, sickly atmosphere — 
enough to poison any human being ! And 
every time the door opened, a gale blew 
along the ground, and froze one's feet till 
they were like stones. I would not live in 
that house if I were paid for it." 

Dolly differed from him entirely. He 
liked the place and everything about it. 

His mother a&rreed with him. Yes. 



i6 



PAULINE. 



Mrs. Wyndham was a^eable — certainly 
agreeable, kiad, and friendly. Good-look- 
ing too. 

Dolly thought her uncommonly good- 
looking. A little bit made up, you know, 
but what of that ? Miss La Sarte is not 
made up, at all events. She is — ah — 
rather handsome, is she not ? 

Not rather — very. A lovely g^rl. So 
graceful, so retiring 1 Such a contrast to 
those awkward Miss Jermyns I Lady 
Finch protests that she cannot imagine 
how they come to belong to the same race. 

Hereupon Dolly grows quite excited. 
There is no relationship, none of any sort. 
Mrs. Wyndham had made a low sort of 
marriage, and had eot a lot of money, and 
her husband was dead, and there was no 
more to be said about it. But with Miss 
La Sarte, the Jermyns have nothing to do ; 
Miss La Sarte belongs to a good old fam- 
Uy. 

He is so intelligible, and so deeply in 
earnest, that Sir John's two grey eyebrows 
come to the front, and make a dead point. 

Beauty, birth, and money ? He thinks 
it might do. 

He will not say more of the discomforts 
he has undergone ; and if that invitation 
Mrs. Wyndham talked about should come, 
it must certainly be accepted, even if he 
should slip out of the engagement after- 
wards. 

There proved to be some cause for the 
latter provision. 

The next day he sat in his ^eat arm- 
chair by the fire, in all the dignity of sick- 
ness. 

Slippers encased his feet, a dressing- 
gown buttoned to his chin, and a shawl 
overspread his shoulders. His grey locks 
of hair, instead of curling crisply round 
each temple as was their wont, were 
brushed straight. They had not been 
plunged into water that morning, nor had 
bis beard been trimmed. He was really 
unwell, and unnaturallv docile and meek. 

By midday Lady Finch sent for the 
doctor. 

He allowed that she had done right. 
Perhaps the doctor could do him some 
little good. He was ill — he was exceed- 
ingly ill. Headache, and a nasty depres- 
sion. He didn't know where. Every- 
where. Then he closed his hand and beat 
bis breast sorrowfully, " Pain, pain, pain I " 

" I told you you had got a cold, sir," 
said Dolly, smiling, but not undutifuUy. 
** You never would have made such a fuss 
about those rooms, if there had not been 
something the matter with you. You don't 
care what a room is like, as a rule.'' 



" I dare say you are right," mildly re- 
joined the invalid. *' This attack was 
coming upon me, and that must have been 
why I felt out of sorts altogether ; I ought 
never to have been out of doors ; I know 
I ought not What the doctor will say to 
me '* 

'* Oh, you'll be all right again in a day 



or two. You have only to take some gruel, 
and that sort of thing.' What's this ? " as 
a servant entered with a tray. 

" Your soup, Sir John," said the man, 
arranging it by his side. 

"My soup? Eh? I didn't order any 
soup. What am I to do with it? Who 
sent it? " demanded his master, eyeing the 
basin, but without ill-will. , " I don't know 
that I want that soup," he continued, 
irresolutely. 

" The best thing in^he world for a cold," 
said Dolly. "And uncommonly good it 
smells, too. Heigh-ho 1 1 wish it was din- 
ner-time." 

" Do you ? Perhaps I may take a little ; 
a mouthful or two. What made you say 
it was good ? I don't know that it's good. 
I don't like eating soup at this hour ; it is 
just some of Custard's nonsense, sending 
it," breaking some bread into the bowl as 
he spoke. 

" Don't have it, if you don't want it,'* 
said Dolly, whose appetite had been 
sharpened by a long ride in the cold air. 
" If you are going to send it down again, 
give It to me. I'll soon make short work 
of it." 

His evident partiality was as stimulating 
as a good sauce ; more so, indeed, to Sir 
John, who hated sauces, as he hated every- 
thing that was not solid, substantial, and 
John Bull to the core. 

"Oh, I suppose I had better take it," 
replied he, lifting a spoonful with an air of 
resignation. " When one is weak and ill 
as I am, it sets one up a little. I wonder 
that Dr. Tyndall has not come yet 1 He 
should not have been so long in coming, 
when I sent for him. Did he know it was 
for tne^ Anne ? " to his wife, who entered. 

"Oh, how comfortable you look, my 
dear!" cried she, disregarding him. "I 
am so glad to see you can enjoy your 
soup. Custard told me she had ordered 
it for you." 

" Humph I I'm playing with it a little." 
Sir John hung his head, and almost blushed 
for the relish he had evinced. 

" I knew it was that Custard," he con- 
tinued. "As if I am to be cured by any- 
thing she can do I If I were on my death- 
bed she would concoct some trasii of a 
jelly, and imagine nothing more could be 



BLUNDELLSAYE, 



17 



Deeded ! The only person who might do 
me some little good is Dr. TyndaTi, and 
he keeps away. Send for a doctor, and 
you have as good a chance of getting a 
policeman when he*s wanted." 

"He has sent a message just now, to 
say that he had been called away, but will 
look in here this evening," said Lady 
Finch. 

" This evening! Thafs not when I 
want him. Am 1 to wait all that time to 
know what is the matter with me ? Till 
this evening, indeed ! Till he has been 
round the parish, and attended to every 
whipper-snapper in it. And how am I to 
tell what to do for myself, or what to send 
for, or — or anything ? Dr. Tyndall can 
have no idea how ill I am. That fool of a 
Thomas has given the wrong mes- 



sage 



" Thomas was out with me," observed 
Dolly. 

" Willian?!, then. One of them. He has 
been idling away his time in the ale- 
house " 

" He has not had time to idle, if he has 
been to Hexley and back." 

" I tell you he has. He has made a 
mess of it somehow. Who saw him.** 
Who received the answer } " 

Lady Finch vouched for the authenticity 
of the answer. She had met the butler 
on his way to deliver it, and had cross- 
examined him. The groom, who had rid- 
den to Hexley, had met the doctor's gig 
leaving the village, and had received the 
message from Dr. Tyndall's own lips. 

" And what does * this evening' mean, I 
should like to know ? " muttered the inva- 
lid, relapsing into testiness. ** It may mean 
any time. Eight o'clock, nine o'clock, ten 
o'clock. It is too bad " (with rising sharp- 
ness) •* of Dr. Tyndall to put me off with 

* this evening.' " 

Eight o'clock Lady Finch pronounced 
to be the fated hour. Dr. Tyndall was 
rarely out after eight o'clock. He prob- 
ably intended to take Finch Hall on his 
way home. 

• Sir John humphed, grunted, and fretted 
as he listened to her. 

Three hours stiU to wait ! Three mortal 
hours, in which there was nothing to be 
done but sit, sit, sit, and listen to the clock 
ticking ! He did not want any more of 
the newspaper. He never went to sleep 
at that hour. He spurned every overture 
made to him. 

"Three hours ! And I haven't eaten a 
thing to-day ! You needn't laugh," — to 
Dolly. " I tell you I have not. Nothing 
but that abominable soup; and why I took 

LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 938 



it I can't think. Messes at all hours of 
the day are enough to give one a fever. I 
feel much worse than I did, I can assure 
you. I wish I had thrown that soup out 
of the window." 

" You do not look well, indeed," sympa- 
thized his wife. 

''Well? I tell you I'm very ill, I 
can't get anyone of you to understand how 
ill I am.* If a proper account had been 
sent of me by William, that doctor could 
never have had the face to put me off with 
* this evening.' " 

" Oh, come, sir," said Dolly, " you are 
getting round, or you would not be so 
fively. You were altogether too mild and 
tearful just now; I was growing really 
alarmed. You must be a long way bet- 

" I tell you I'm not better ! " 

Dolly spread his hands, and pulled a 
face. 

"I'm not better," continued his father, 
angrily. " You are just making a fool of 
me. None of you have any feeling." 

" Dolly, be quiet," said his mother. 
" Your father is very uncomfortable and 
feverish." 

" Uncomfortable ! Is that all you call 
it?" 

" I said feverish, dear. And since you 
dislike so much waiting for Dr. Tynaall, 
let us send over to R. for Dr. Bell. Thom- 
as can ride over at once. Shall I ring.'* " 

" No, no." He would not have Dr. 
Bell ; he disliked strangers ; and, twenty 
to one. Dr. Bell would be off on some 
wild-goose-chase too. It was not worth 
while sending, for he should not see him 
if he came. Dr. Tyndall understood his 
constitution. It was too bad of Dr. Tyn- 
dall not to have obeyed his summons 
sooner; but still he would wait for Dr. 
Tyndall, and none other would he have. 
. The suggestion had done its part, how- 
ever. It had given him something to 
think and speak about. He was now will- 
ing to lie back in his chair again, and pat 
his hands softly together, and discuss the 
probable cause of the doctor's delay. 

Was there any one ill in the neighbor- 
hood ? Had he been sent for, to any dis- 
tance .'* Had he gone to London ? 

The groom attested that he had not 
gone to London. He had driven off in 
the opposite direction : he had no lug- 
gage, and — Sir John was in the act of 
listening, and the butler was in the act of 
delivering the message, when the door- 
bell rang, with a sharp, authoritative de- 
mand. 

" Dr. Tyndall's ring, Sir John," said the 



i8 



PAULINE, 



man, with a smile ; and in a few moments 
afterwards, Dr. Tyndall walked in. 

Finding that he should have to be out 
again that night, he had come, on second 
thoughts, to Finch Hall first. He was 
sorry to hear that Sir John was unwell. 
What was the matter? Cold? Bilious 
attack ? 

The patient gave himself little airs. 

Well, no. He did not think he was 
bilious. His liver might perhaps be a 
little affected. Dr. Tyndall would remem- 
ber how very ill he had been from his 
liver some years before. He thought he 
felt something of the same sort this time, 
only worse. What were the exact symp- 
toms of liver complaint? 

The doctor restrained his countenance, 
and mentioned several. 

"And I have no appetite," continued 
the invalid. ** I thou^jht I had a little just 
now, but it's gone. Thev gave me some 
nasty soup, that took it all away again.'' 

** You took the soup ? " 

" I took it — yes, a little. I wish now I 
had let it alone. You don't approve of 
such rubbish I am sure. Dr. Tyndall ? 
These women," contemptuously, "they 
have no sense ; they are made up of fiddle- 
faddle crotchets." 

At the end of a quarter of an hour he 
was more composed ; he had been dic- 
tated to, sympathized with, and prescribed 
for. 

All was going on satisfactorily, when, as 
ill luck would have it, the visitor rose. 

" You are not going yet ! " cried Sir 
John, from the depths of his armchair. 
"You have hardly come in! Do you 
mean to say you can't sit down for five 
minutes ? " He was hurt, and a sense of 
desertion stole over him. "Can't you 
stay and have some dinner?*" he con- 
tinued, almost plaintively. " Let your car- 
riage go, and we will send you home." 

But Dr. Tyndall arrested the order. 

It must be owned that he had a certain 
pleasure in saying "No;" that he felt all 
the importance of being hurried from one 
great house to another, as he announced 
that " home " was not his destination ; he 
had been summoned to Blundellsave. 

It was this visit which he haa feared 
would detain him until the evening. He 
had been actually on his way there, when 
Sir John's messenger overtook him, and 
it was not until after it was too late to re- 
call the man, that it had occurred to him 
to alter the arrangement. 

Sir John inquired, still with something of 
the peevishness of an injured man, which 
of the madcaps had sent for him. 



The doctor was unable to say. In fact 
— with a little irritability — no proper 
message had been despatched. 

He had met the drag, with a partv in it, 
near the station, and a footman had jumped 
down and run after him, with a request 
that he would go up to the house at once. 

Not having the pleasure of Mr. Ralph 
BlundelPs acquaintance, he had not looked 
into the carriage. Some one had bawled 
out to the man that they would be late for 
the train, and they had rattled off before 
he could understand clearly what was re- 
quired of him. 

Nevertheless, he must go, and with a 
motion of his hand he put aside further 
entreaties. They had to yield ; and a dull 
evening, unenlivened by his cheerful chat, 
was endured by all. 

It was late ere the doctor left Blundell- 
saye that night, and he was there again be- 
times on the following morning. On his 
way he was overtaken by Mrs. Jermyn 
and her daughter, who were driving over 
to spend a few days at the Grange. The 
ladies pulled up, and he was consulted 
about Dot's second teeth, and the illness 
of a servant. 

Then the waggonette took the lead, for 
the day was raw, and the doctor had en- 
closed himself in his brougham, which 
could not keep pace with the lighter vehi- 
cle. Also, he had halts to make, at one 
house and another. He made his bow, 
and they drove on. 

"You have indeed ht^n well received, 
my dear Camilla," began Mrs. Jermyn 
after luncheon, during which full accounts 
of the past fortnight's doings had been 
given and hearkened to. " You are now 
fairly established as one of ourselves. 
But I said how it would be. It is the 
siege^ you know, the siege that was prog- 
nosticated." 

" Come along with me," said Charlotte 
to Pauline. " Mamma and Aunt Camilla 
like to palaver to each other with nobody 
by, to listen or interfere with them. They 
will ^ dear,* and ^ quiUy and * j<?,' as hap- 
pily as possible, for the next two hours. 
Now tell me all you have got to tell. What 
have you been about since you came ? 
How do you get on together i And has 
she sent for the hat, yet r " 

Pauline could not choose but smile. 

" You have no idea how kind she is, 
Charlotte ; nor how little silly she can be, 
when — when we are quite alone." 

"When mamma is not with her? Eh? 
I daresay. And so you are not absolutely 
bored to death, yet r You poor soul ! I 
do pity you. And what says the Little 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



19 



Fennel to it all? And did Dolly come 
with the Finches ? " 

" Dolly ? Oh yes," said Pauline, dream- 
ily. " I wonder who is ill, in this direc- 
tion ? Aunt Camilla allows Dr. Tyndall 
to drive through the grounds, as he used 
to do before she came, if he has to go 
that way ; and this is the second time he 
has passed up the Long Avenue to-day." 

" I can tell you," said Charlotte, with 
an odd look in her face. " Mamma would 
say you would not thank me, but of course 
that s nonsense. Only I know," she 
added, looking, with an assumption of en- 
tire carelessness, the other way, " that it 
is not^ pleasant hearing of anything hap- 
pening to — to one*s brother's friends. 
Mr. Blundell has got typhoid fever." 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE doctor's carriage. 

For it is with feelings as with waters, 

The shallow murmur, and the deep are dumb. 

• " Mamma, you were wrong alto- 
gether ! " cried Charlotte, afterwards. 
** She did not care a straw. She said, 

* Indeed ! I am sorry,' and then walked 
to her wardrobe, and took out her shawl, 
as composedly as I should have done. I 
forestalled you with the intelligence, in 
case the effect might be too much for your 
tender heart ; but 1 might have saved my- 
self the trouble. Mr. Blundell has no 
chief mourner — at present, at all events. 
Are you going out ? " 

" No, mdeed ! not on such a day. It 
would bring my neuralgia back again di- 
rectly. I shall stay with your aunt, and 
you can take a walk with Pauline." 

** We are going to drive," said Char- 
lotte. **Aunt Camilla wants some shop- 
ping done in Hexley, and we are going in 
the pony-carriage. There it is coming out 
of tne stables. What a smart little turn- 
out ! Look, mamma ! that is surely a new 
kind of carriage; I don't think I have 
seen one like it before.'* 

" Who is going to drive ? " 

" Pauline, of course. This is her car- 
riage. Aunt Camilla never goes out in it." 

** It is quite absurd the way your aunt 
spoils Pauline," cried Mrs. Jermyn. " I 
hear she is getting down an Erard grand 
piano on purpose Tor her. And she is to 
have masters in the spring. It is really 
quite — quite ridiculous. A poor depen- 
aent girl ! an absolute pauper ! Most un- 
suitable, when she may have to earn her 
own bread " 

"Not she!" 

« You can't tell ; it is quite possible. 



Accustoming: her to all this luxury is no 
kindness. It — oh, come in, come in, my 
dear," in answer to a tap at the door. 
" Come in, Pauline ; so you and Charlotte 
are going to have a little drive together. 
If you want Charlotte to drive, she is not 
at all nervous, and perhaps rather more 
accustomed to ponies than you are " 

" Would Charlotte like to drive ? " said 
Pauline. 

** Of course she would," said Charlotte, 
readily — " and so would Pauline ; so you 
drive one way and I the other, and we 
shall both be happy. As for my being ac- 
customed to ponies," she confided oh their 
way down-stairs, " that is one of mamma's 
little flights. I have never driven any- 
thing in my life but our old Tommy, who 
can by no means be started, unless some 
one runs in front of him all the way down 
the drive. But as I dearly love to handle 
the reins, and as you have got such a 
sweet little rat of a thing to take along, I 
can't find it in my heart to refuse the polite 
invitation. We look picturesque, don't 
we 1 you in your scarlet shawl, and I in 
my blue cloak.'* Something nice and 
bright to look at on this deplorable day. 
Don't you wear gloves ? " 

" Of course," said Pauline, absently. 

" Where are they then ? Why, I de- 
clare you thought they were on your 
hands ! Your wits are wool-gathering, I 
think, or you are dreaming of some one 
far away. * Over the hills and far away.' 
Let me see! Who can it be?" 

" You had better drive first, Charlotte. 
Roger is apt to pull, coming home." 

** Then you must wake up if you are go- 
ing to hold him in, my dear. Where is 
the button for this apron ? " Lower, " We 
don't need a man, do we ? " 

" Not when there are two of us. I have 
one when I go alone. What are you wait- 
ing for ? " 

" He has gone for umbrellas. Not that 
there is the slightest chance of rain, but, 
however, they do no«harm. Now, shall I 
set off 1 " 

They had not started many minutes 
when Pauline uttered a low ejaculation. 

"What is it.?" inquired Charlotte. 

" The doctor's carriage coming back. 
Don't you think — we might " 

" What 1 " 

"Nothing. Don't drive quite so fast, 
Charlotte. Don't let us be in his way. 
Let him overtake us while the road is 
broad enough for his brougham to pass. 
It takes up some room." 

" We need not be in his way," said 
Charlotte. " We could run away from his 



20 



PAULINE. 



old rumble-tumble easily. I can hardlv 
hold the pony in, as it is. Get on, Roger." 

" Give me the reins. I forgot that he 
had been in the stables the whole of yes- 
terday. Of course he is too fresh for you." 

She attempted to take them, but Char- 
lotte laughed, and held them fast. 

** No, no — none of that. If he pulls 
when he is coming home, and if he is too 
fresh for me when he is going out, I sha'n't 
get much driving between the two. Hie, 
Koger ! That is the proper pace to take. 
There, you see, the carriage is not even in 
sight behind us." 

Pauline said not a word. 

A few minutes later they came in sight 
of the lodge. 

" Oh, I wonder how the baby is to-day ! " 
cried Miss La Sarte. "There is such a 
dear little baby here, Charlotte — only a 
week old ; and I am to be godmother. I 
must look after my baby. It was not quite 
well when I was down on Tuesday. Stop^ 
and let me ask how it is." 

" We can ask when we come back," said 
Charlotte. ** Would that not do as well, 
as the gate is open now ? " 

" Oh, you can pull up just outside," said 
Pauline, readily. " There is plenty of 
room beyond for the carriage to pass. 
Besides, now that I think of it, we might 
need to call in the doctor; it would be a 
pity to lose the opportunity, when he is 
actually passing the door. I will ask him 
to wait one moment till I see." 

The idea, which, in all truth, had only 
that moment flashed upon her, made Pau- 
line look almost bright. 

"Just stop for a moment, Charlotte, and 
I will jump down." 

" Wny should you jump down ? Call to 
some one to come out. There must be 
some woman or girl to look after the 
house. There ! Oh ! Will you come 
here for a moment ? " calling herself to a 
girl who ran hastily out, perceiving she 
might be wanted. 

" How is the baby ?" inquired the other 
lady. 

" Oh, baby is as well as can be, miss, 
mother says. It was that bottle as you 
sent down, that did her all the good. She 
has never had no return of nothink," 

" And the pain is quite gone ? " 

" Oh yes, miss. She is asleep, now. I 
have got her in the kitchen, to let mother 
have a bit of sleep too. Would you please 
to come in ?" 

" No, no — not to-day ; not if there is 
no need. But there is Dr. Tyndall, you 
see, close behind us. You are sure your 



mother would not like him just to see the 
baby ? " 

"Oh, he couldn*t see nothink, miss. 
And mother said yesterday as no baby 
could be better than she is now, and " 

" Then we had better go on," said 
Miss Jermyn, raising the reins, "or we 
shall be in the way again. How heavy the 
roads are this afternoon ! If I had taken 
Tommy out, he would have crawled at a 
foot*s pace ; but this plucky little creature 
minds nothing. Look, Pauline ! Is not 
that a fine lurid light upon Blundellsaye } 
Ah, poor Ralph Blundell ! Who would 
have thought this was to be the end of 
him ! " 

Trot, trot, trot, along the muddy high- 
way, and the doctor's brougham still rolls 
behind. 

He had not turned, as Pauline had 
feared he would, in the opposite direction. 
He was going, as they were, to the vil- 
lage. 

" Where shall we stop first ? " inquired 
Charlotte. 

" At the chemist's," boldly rejoined her 
companion. " Drive straight there." 

" The chemist's ? That is at the other 
end. We shall have to clatter all down 
the street first. Never mind, I like it. 
On such an afternoon it is something even 
to go to a chemist's ; shopping in Hexley 
is absolute dissipation. What a splendia 
road this is ! I like a great, broad road, 
with walls on each side, and not a hill 
anywhere to check our speed. I do like 
to go fast. My heart sinks at the sight of 
our long rising ground outside the hamlet. 
We are expected to get out and walk up, 
in hot weather. Oh, Pauline, look at the 
river I How like a sheet of glass it lies ! 
And those unearthly phantoms rising out 
of the mist — are those the poplars } 
What a ghostly landscape ! And to crown 
it all, that passing-bell," 

" That passing-bell / " 

"It is not one, you know ; it only 
sounds like it. It is for afternoon ser- 



>j 



vice. 

" Afternoon service ! " repeated Pauline, 
turning two helpless eyes on her compan- 
ion. " What afternoon service ? " 

" You are rather addle-pated to-day, my 
dear ; excuse the polite remark. We 
always have afternoon services in Advent, 
and so I suppose have you. Yes, I know 
they have, at Hexley." 

" Yes, certainly, I remember." 

" And now for the chemist's. Caudle ? 
Is not that the man ? We send over to 
him now and then, as mamma thinks his 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



21 



medicines are fresher than our little man's 
at Pipton. Softly over the bridge, Roger. 
Now^ Pauline, look at the poplars. Look 
over your shoulder. I say ! there*s that 
old pill-box close to our heels again ! It 
may pass now, for aught ). care. There 
he goes, and gone to our chemist too! 
What is to be done ? We must go some- 
where else. To the library ? " 

'* No, no — never mind the carriage," 
said Pauline, sharply. " What does it 
matter ? We can pull up behind it. We 
cannot expect to have the shops all to our- 
selves." 

" But he will keep you such a long 
time," remonstrated Charlotte. " He will 
have all sorts of prescriptions to be made 
up, and potions to be mixed. Caudle can- 
not attend to you both." 

** I sha'n*t keep him a moment," Pau- 
line put her hand upon thf reins. " No 
need to draw in, I can get out here." 

And, scarcely waiting till the wheels 
stopped, she jumped out, and disappeared 
into the shop, Dr. Tyndall himself hold- 
ing the door open for her. 

She had caught him at last. 

" How do you do ? " 

But the doctor drew back. 

" I think. Miss La Sarte, I won't come 
very near you, if you please. I have just 
come from a fever patient ; and although 
it is not an infectious kind — still — allow 
me to wait outside while you are being 
attended to." 

"Pray don't," said the poor girl, des- 
perately. But he had closed the door. 

Her purchase was made in a moment — 
a box of lozenges — and she came out 
again. 

"Is your patient very ill, Dr. Tyndall ? " 
putting the change given by the shopman 
into her purse, with great deliberation. 

" Typhoid fever," said he, concisely. 

" Mr. Blundell, is it not ? " 

" Yes, Mr. Ralph Blundell. He is very 
ill, Miss La Sarte. 

She closed the purse, and looked him 
full in the face. 

" I used to know Mr. Blundell ; he was 
a friend of my brother, who would be 
sorry — tell me," said she, suddenly, with 
a catch of her breath, " have you given up 

hope ? " 

" Given up hope ? By no means. We 
shall make a fight of it, I can tell you; 
but — ah — " with an unavoidable inflec- 
tion of enjoyment, " it is a bad case. You 
know Mr. Ralph? He has not led the 
best kind of life to bring him through a 
fever. He has been fast, you know — 
fast And he is not as young as be once 



was, and every year tells. Added to all 
this the stupid fellow has been going about 
for the last fortnight with the fever upon 
him, and without permitting anything to 
be done for it. I was not sent for till last 
night. I ought to have been with him ten 
days ago. This is a growing, creeping 
mischief ; and of course, at the first, it is 
not unusual for people to be wholly un- 
aware of their state ; but such neglect as 
this I never met with before. It was 
shameful, monstrous ; and so I told them. 
They ought to have sent in spite of him. 
A sick man's orders ought to be looked 
upon as so much waste breath. However, 

A that can be done now Allow me 

to hand you in." 

She was not going to get in, she would 
walk to the next shop. She detained him, 
however, for a few moments, under a pre- 
text so plausible, that it was spoken fear- 
lessly, eagerly. 

" Dr. Tynaall, you will have to go often 
to Blundellsaye, of course. Shall I tell 
our lodge-keeper to leave the gates open 
at night ? My aunt would be vexed if you 
had to go round by the road ; but unless I 
give orders, you may find some difficulty 
m rousing anybody. They wait up, on 
the evenings that we go out." 

"Thank you — thank you. Yes, I may 
have to go through at all hours, and it 
saves my horses a good mile and a half 
taking that short cut. I am detaining 
you; Miss Jermyn is making signs." 

" Shall I say you will pass through to- 
night?" With her back turned on Char- 
lotte she could affect not to perceive the 
signs. For this once, Charlotte should not 
balk her. 

" To-night ? Well, no ; I think not to- 
night," replied the doctor, thoughtfully. 
" 1 have been already there twice, and we 
have got a good nurse. The crisis will 
not be yet. The thing is to keep him 
quiet and keep up his strength. He will 
have need of it all by-and-by. Mrs. 
Wyndham quite well ? " 

** Quite, thank you. She is not out to- 
day." 

" Ah ! Not a day for her either. But 
you young ladies mind nothing — I see 
you out in all weathers. I tell my daugh- 
ter I wi'sh she would take a lesson. Good 
morning." 

He turned from her rather hastily. Two 
horsemen, whose appearance seemed to 
indicate that they were returning from a 
fruitless run, were dejectedly traversing 
the village at a foot's pace. 

To one of these the doctor signalled ; 
and having made his bow to Miss La 



22 



PAULINE. 



Sarte, he ran out into the street. The 
elder of the pair reined up, Major Soames, 
who vied with Dr. Tyndall in his spring 
flower-beds; and thev now held an ani- 
mated discussion on tne possibility of ob- 
taining some Dutch tulip-roots which the 
doctor had an inkling were to be had 
cheap. 

" They did excellently with the Thom- 
sons last year," he said. " You never saw 
a finer show. How is your soil for 
tulips ? " 

** Good, moderately good. But I mean 
to improve it. I fancy it is, if anything, 
too light. Did Thomson have a go(id 
show ? What were the varieties ? " *^ 

" Chiefly Couleur Pouceau ; magnificent 
blossoms. Oh, Mr. Finch, will you kindly 
say to Sir John " 

But Dolly had passed on, and drawn up 
beside the pavement ; at the moment, he 
was bendine from his horse in close con- 
versation with a lady who stood up)on it. 

Dr. Tyndall looked blankly round, and 
plunged anew into the congenial dialogue. 
His message to Sir John was not half so 
important to him as the culture of his 
tulips. 

Meanwhile Dolly, with a happy face, 
was doing his best. 

" Good morning," he said, cheerily ; " do 
you patronize Caudle's ? " 

" For lozenges. Will you have some ? " 
Miss La Sarte fumbled with the string of 
her pocket " Will you have one, Char- 
lotte?" 

Charlotte put out her hand, keeping her 
eye on Roger all the while. 

Then the box was held up, and Dolly 
was a long time over his selection. 

" You are sure they won*t burn ? " he 
said. " My mother gets hold of some of 
those long red things that look awfully 
good in the box, and they are the greatest 
shams. You take a handful, and when 
you have had them in your mouth half a 
minute, the tears are running down your 
cheeks. By the way, my governor is ill. 
I think I'll take him some." 

He made no motion of going in search 
of them, however. He dallied with his 
reins, patted his horse's neck, and thought 
of something more to say. 

** Coming to the Hunt ball. Miss La 
Sarte ? " 

She was not sure ; her aunt had spoken 
of it. 

She must come ; it was to be one of the 
best they had had for many years. He 
was beginning to expatiate, when she in- 
terrupted him in a motherly fashion. 



" Do you know that you are very 
hoarse ? Have you caught cold too ? " 

** I have got what the doctor calls * a 
throat,' " replied he. 

" And what are you doing for it?" 

" Oh, nothing. I shall dance it off to- 
morrow at R. You are not going there, 
of course ? With us it is a call of duty ; 
we are always let in for it." 

" You seem to me to have a very good 
excuse ; but you are coming up to us to- 
night? Go and ask Dr. Tyndall's leave, 
or we sha*n*t receive you." 

" Eh I " said Dolly, opening his eyes. 

"There he is! go and speak to him," 
continued Pauline, excitedly. " When 
there are so many dangerous complaints 
going about you ought to take care. He 
will tell you himself how ill some of his 
patients are. A sore throat ought not to 
be trifled witb." 

" I'll do it, to please you." 

His face beamed. " Only, whatever he 
says, you know, you'll see me to-night all 
the same." 

Pauline turned to go. 

" Nice little pony," observed Dolly, 
still keeping alongside. 

" He will trot as fast as your horse will," 
said Charlotte, who haa with difficulty 
kept the creature quiet for so long. 

** Well, I ciare say," replied the horse- 
man. " Are you going home, now ? Let 
us have a trotting match." 

Major Soames has wheeled off as he 
speaks, and the little doctor is pattering 
back over the stones. Miss La Sarte turns 
round involuntarily, and sees the shop-door 
open and close after him. Then she re- 
plies to Dolly's suggestion imperiously. 

" No, no ; we have a thousand things to 
do first, and we have no more time to 
waste. Charlotte, please go on to the 
library, take this list, and get the books 
changed. They are under the seat. I will 
walk there, when I have handed this note in 
at that red house over there. Good-bye, 
Mr. Finch. Pray " (with an eflFort at arch- 
ness), *' pray don't forget your promise." 

"Eh? my promise?" said Dolly, stu- 
pidly. 

" He is in there," continued Pauline, 
wishing Charlotte were not by, that she 
might speak more' plainly. " We are not 
going to have you" (Charlotte moved on) 
*• following poor Mr. Blundell's example. 
As^ how he is.** 

The words had the ring of a command. 
They were spoken — she had determined 
that they should be spoken. Though 
terrified at her own audacity, she waited 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



23 



cot for any answer, but walked with 
rapid steps across the street. 

Once on the other side, however, she 
paused and glanced back. Dr. Tyndall 
stood by Dolly, and she was so far content. 

"What did he say to you?" she in- 
quired in the evening. 

" Eh ? What about ? " said he. 

"Your cold, of course." 

" Oh, my cold is gone ; that brown thing 
cured it. You must give me another after 
dinner, though, if they are all as good. 
The doctor was telling me about poor 
Ralph Blundell." 

So she had hoped, and for this she had 
manoeuvred. Her woman's wit had prompt- 
ed her to hold him in parley until the other 
was at liberty, and then, with her Parthian 
shot, she had flown. 

" I rode up at once to ask after him," 
continued Dolly ; " that was how I came 
to miss you, I suppose. I thought Miss 
Jermyn and I were to have had that match 
we spoke about." 

" Miss Jermyn would have been delight- 
ed," said Charlotte, overhearing him. 
" And she would have backed Roger for 
anything you liked to name. You have no 
idea of the pace we took on the way 
home." 

He laughed. " Come, it would be rather 
a joke ; we'll have it. Will you put him 
into training? And when shall it come 
off?" 

They were wandering from the point, 
and Pauline sighed for patience — that 
weary patience which mav indeed help to 
bear, but which is itself almost intolerable 
to be borne. 

She was appealed to by the disputants. 

Would she not stand up for Roger, her 
own Roger, the best little Roger in the 
world? Charlotte was in her element, 
equal to any repartee, conversant with 
every sporting term. She was vaunting in 
extravagant terms the pony's beauty, swift- 
ness, and amiability of temper ; and Dolly, 
who lived more in' the stable than in the 
bouse, was entering, con amore, into the 
discussion. 

He was surprised but not displeased at 
the lukewarmness of Pauline. 

" Hang it ! I'm not clever, and that sort 
of thing," thought the poor boy. " I can 
get on v.ery well with girls that chaff and 
talk humbug ; but when that won't go down 
I don't know what to say. I don't like 
them any the better for it ; this one is 
worth a hundred of all the rest put to- 
gether : and I hope that my Lady Finch 
— if ever there is one — won't go in for 
horses, and that. And slang's odious." 



The last observation was called forth 
by the use of some cant term which Char- 
lotte had recently picked up. It was one 
which, in all probability, half the ladies in 
the county would have used, and which, 
up to the present time, would have been 
passed by, unnoticed, by Dolly. But at 
the moment it assailed his ears, two great, 
pure, penetrating eyes were turned upon 
his, and then and there his heart fell down 
dead before them. 



(( 



CHAPTER XX. 
CRIES AS IF HER HEART WOULD BREAK. 



»» 



• It seemed to Pauline that they fell to 
talking about Blundell quite naturally after 
this. 

" I rode over to Blundellsaye, as I told 
you," said Dolly. " Of course I did not 
go in — there would have been no good in 
that ; but I just paid him the attention," he 
added, with a little air of pomposity, "be- 
coming the future head of the house." 

"Would he hear that you had been 
there ? " 

" Oh, of course. Well, I don't know." 

" Is he so ill, then ? " 

" They think he is rather in for it." 

" I am awfully sorry for poor Blundell," 
broke out Dolly, after a pause. There 
had been another controversy at the Hall 
— he was full of his own opinion, and 
burning to confide it to impartial ears. 

" The people here are such a prejudiced 
lot," he continued ; " you wouldn't believe 
the way they go on about him. They 
have got hold of the idea that because he 
plays rather high, and bets a little, and — 
and that sort of thing — that he is all 
that's bad. The one half of them cut him. 
My governor won't have him at the house. 
Now, /don't go in with it at all. He has 
lots of money, and why shouldn't he do 
what he likes with his own ? Everybody 
says he is as straightforward and honorable 
as a fellow can be ; and he's the best- 
hearted and kindest one you can find, if 
he's only let alone. They say he has a 
temper, and that; but wno cares for a 
temper? Thafs not what people mind. 
It's just because he has got a bad name — 
and my governor's at the bottom of it." 

" Is he ? " said she, faintly. 

" Oh, by Jove ! yes. You ought to have 
heard how he went on just now, when he 
was told where I had been. Of course he 
wasn't going to say anything to ///^," said 
the youQg man, with immense dignity; 
" it was my mother who told me afterwards. 
Of course he would never attempt to inter- 
fere with what I choose to do," continued 



24 



PAULINE. 



Dolly, secretly cherishing the remem- 
brance of that amende honorable which 
had been made after the first battle ; " of 
course he knows better than that But 
he would as soon think of riding into the 
river as going over himself. My mother 
quite goes in with me." 

" Does she ? " cried Pauline. 

^' She thinks it's a shame — just as I do. 
My mother hates to hear people run down 
for nothing ; and when I tell her what hard 
lines it is for Blundell, she quite under- 
stands." 

As indeed she did, for no one was more 
son-ridden than was Lady Finch. Her 
daughters had married almost immediately 
upon their emancipation from the school- 
room ; and Dolly was her youngest, her 
spoilt darling, her Benjamin. To him she 
fondly deferred on all occasions ; with 
him she took counsel on matters whereon 
most wives dutifully seek advice from their 
lords. He dictated to her, his principal 
subject, with perfect ease and engaging 
frankness ; she admired, applauded, and 
echoed the words. 

Pauline, with a great burst of gratitude 
for the womanly tenderness, and more, for 
the womanly powers of discernment which 
she fancied had been revealed, turned to 
her companion. 

" I honor your mother," she said. 

" Oh, well, she is awfully good," replied 
he, rather astonished. " By the way, she 
wants to know when you are coming over 
to see her. You were to look at some 
flowers, or something, weren't you ? " 

" Yes, certainly. We will arrange with 
my aunt before you go. But what I meant 
was, about — about what you were saying 
just now. It is such a cruel thing to take 
up false reports, especially when they are, 
as they nearly always are, ill-natured 
and 



n 



**Oh, you mean about Blundell," said 
Dolly, shrewdl)r. ** Yes, that's what I say. 
It's all for nothing. Well, I won't exactly 
say for nothing. He was an awfully wild 
fellow, as a young fellow *, but fellows 
change, you know. People hark back to 
what he was years ago, and bring it all up 
against him now." 

" But he may have changed since then." 

"That's what I say. Of course he 
may." 

"Do you think," said Pauline, "he 
has ? " 

" Well, I don't know. I daresay. I 
don't know much about him. You see, 
when he left — that's about two years ago 
— I was at Oxford ; and so, of course, I 
wasn't much down here, for we were 



always off somewhere in the summer, and 
at Christmas I had a lot of places to go to. 
My mother used to make a fuss to have 
me at home, so I always came down for 
some part of the time, and we used to 
meet them, — there were two of them then, 
you know — there was a brother who was 
drowned afterwards. They were always 
out with the hounds, and that was pretty 
much all we ever saw of them. They 
were always civil, and it's disagreeable not 
to be on good terms with your neighbors. 
By the way, how conveniently you are 
placed here for people dropping in. You 
musn't be surprised," with a little nervous, 
exploring laugh, " to see me sometimes. 
I am often passing." 

" We shall always be glad," replied 
Pauline, conventionally. "My aunt is 
rather fond of having people dropping in." 

" She won't turn me away, then ? Please 
ask her not, for I'm coming soon. I shall 
ride over to Blundellsaye every day this 
week." 

No one could have been kinder than 
Pauline was to Dolly, after this. 

She thought him the nicest, the bright- 
est, the handsomest of boys. She smiled 
upon him, chatted with him, humored him 
in a thousand unconsciously attractive 
ways. 

She reminded him of his promise. 
Would he be sure to fulfil it ? Would he 
come in to amuse them when he passed 
that way ? 

They were often very dull, very stupid. 
They wanted waking up. People ought 
to see more of each other, to hear more 
about each other, to — to avoid being 
wrapt up in their own interests. 

The words were words of wisdom, but 
they were curiously at variance with the 
look of the girl who spoke them. The 
restless eye, the a^tated air struck Dolly, 
and, alas ! he mismterpreted their mean- 
ing. 

Come ? Of course he would come. 
Was he likely to forget ? He would come 
the very next day. 

Miss La Sarte met him in the porch. 
" And how is Mr. Blundell ? " 

He had forgotten to inquire. He had 
meant to go up that very afternoon. By 
Jove, he had I and he had forgotten. 
"You see," he explained apologetically, 
" when you asked me here it all went out 
of my head." 

Here was a blow. That visit on which 
she had been counting suddenly changed 
into a penance, her envoy into an ordinary 
mortal. Worse than all, it was her re- 
questy her renewed invitation, that^ with 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



2S 



which she had soaght to strengthen her 
hold upon him, which had wrought the 
mischief. 

Perforce she had to entertain her guest, 
had to listen to his prattle, force herself 
to find topics, and make the weary mo- 
ments pass. 

She had brought it upon herself; she 
would not complain — in fact, she could 
not. 

Mrs, Wyndham was greatly pleased 
with the young man, and surveyed her 
niece, on his departure, with new compla- 
cency. 

"You look extremely well to-day, my 
love. Of late you have been pale — 
rather, if anything, too pale ; but this 
afternoon vour cheeks have quite a color. 
It is well that there is no one by to 
suggest a reason^ is it not, my dear? 
Charlotte, you know, — Charlotte, who is 
so quick-sighted^ and makes such very — 
such odd remarks at times ; and my sister- 
in-law — it is just as well they were not 
here. I pressed them to stay, I did in- 
deed; but they expect some friends to- 
night. Who they were, I did not hear ; 
did you ? Some of their own little set, I 
tancy, or Selina would have been sure to 
say. But, as it turned out, nothing could 
have been more lucky." 

If one of Pauline's emissaries turned 
out faithless, others served her better. 

At the lodge, daily inquiries were made 
when the doctor passed through, and the 
answers were reported word for word. 
They were simple, and invariably the 
same. ** No change." On the seventh 
day she herself contrived to meet the car- 
riage in the avenue. 

** A few grapes for Mrs. Tyndall, and 
my aunt hopes she is better ? They are 
very poor ones, but the best we have." 

"Thank you — thank you; very kind, 
Fm sure. Mrs. Tyndall is getting on 
well, and no fresh attack. I wish I could 
say as much for the patient I have just 
left." 

" Mr. Blundell ? How is he t " 

"It is life or death to-day. Miss La 
Sarte. I shall tell you to-morrow how he 
or there will be nothing more to tell. 



IS 



Good morning." 

She crept slowly home. 

" Pauline, my love, I really cannot allow 
you to walk back and forward in that 
damp avenue a whole afternoon. I was 
watching you from my room, and wonder- 
ing if you would ever come in. I thought 
of sending to you. Wetherell could have 
taken the grapes, or you could have left 



them at the lodge. Did you meet the 
carriage ? " 

She had met the Carriage. 

" And he seemed pleased ? And how is 
Mrs. Tyndall ? " 

" He seemed very much pleased, and 
Mrs. Tyndall is better." 

" But you must not do it again, my love. 
In this weather there is nothing worse for 
one than moping up and down in a damp, 
woody place like that. You look quite 
white. You have got a chill already." 

No, no — she had no chill; she was 
well — quite well. 

" Then do keep more to the open ground 
in future," persisted her aunt. " And now 
there are one or two little things that I 
want you to do for me. Quite little mat- 
ters ; they won't take you many minutes. 
There is this head-dress — it is frightful, 
p)ositively frightful / Just look at that 
feather! Imagine it sticking out above ^ 
my ear like that! And Wetherell can't 
see it. She has unpicked it twice already, 
and each time it is made up worse than 
before. A single touch would put it to 
rights. Any one with a grain of taste 
could do it. I could, myself, only I want 
to lie down and take a little rest this after- 
noon, that I may be fresh for the evening. 
You don't care for needlework, I know, 
but this only needs taste^ and your taste, 
Pauline, is always good. That is why I 
have come to you. As to the work, it will 
be nothings as you see. Just to unpick 
this ruffle — it is far too full — and lay it 
on flat ; and a touch is wanted at the side. 
There is something wrong, something 
heavy-looking about it altogether. I can't 
wear a mountain on my head, can I ? It 
would look ridiculous above my little face. 

" Then, these notes. That one is an in- 
vitation: that's easy; we'll eo. But this 
is rather tiresome, because it is about a 
servant who left me sometime ago, and I 
don't know what character to give her. 
She did not suit me, but then she was ex- 
cellent in her way. I should be sorry if 
she did not get the place; but I d6n't 
think she ought to have applied to me, so 
long afterwards. 

** Just let them know that, dear Pauline, 
and make up the best sort of character you 
can. Quite honesty you know, and sober; 
and be sure you say she had a kitchen- 
maid. 

" Then this wool : I want it matched at 
Helbronners'. Dear me ! where is the 
wool? It was in my hand two minutes 
ago, and I have been nowhere but in the 
drawing-room and conservatory! Just 



36 



PAULINE. 



find it, love, and say I will have two skeins 
more, or whatever you think is wanted to 
finish my cushion. You know the cush- 
ion? It is in the work-basket, if you 
would like to take a peep at it. 

" And, Pauline, one thing more. I am 
so glad I remembered : the plants — the 
plants for the dining-room table ; would 
you choose them yourself this time ? Bur- 
rows sent in such a shabby set last dinner- 
party we had, that I was quite vexed. 
When one has the plants, you know — 
good plants — it is ridiculous. I am par- 
ticularly anxious about the dinner-table 
looking well. By the way, what do you 
wear to-night, my love ? " 

" To-night ? " moaned the poor girl. 

"Yes, to-night. Make yourself very 
bright and pretty, for there will be many 
eyes on the watch. Your amber crape ? 
It would blend with my satin nicely; and 
, you would have the head-dress ready in 
time. Shall it be the crape ? " 

Was it luxury such as this that Mrs. 
Jermyn had pictured ? 

The head-dress is finished; the notes 
have been written; and the plants 
changed. 

And " You dear, good creature ! " cries 
the aunt, ** you shall do one more thin^ for 
me, and then you must run to dress, for it 
is getting near the time. It is only to find 
my keys, Pauline, for where they are gone 
I cannot imagine. They were in my hand 
a little while ago, and I must have them if 
I am to wear my pearls to-nignt. Have 
you any pearls, love? If you have, put 
them on. Let us be as like each other as 
a fair and a dark person can be. Ah ! I 
am many years older than you, Pauline — 
I am indeed. But then, you know, we 
blondes never look our ages as you bru- 
nettes do. We cannot Took old if we 
would. As Colonel Grafton said to me 
— ^^oh, you clever child, you have found 
the keys already 1 Now you shall see my 
pearls. But what a long face you have 
got to-night, my dear ! I know: you want 
to ^e off to your own toilet. Run away 
then, and try to be down before any one 
comes." 

But the guests are already at the door. 

Mrs. Wyndham shrieks, ** It is not time ! 
It is not nearly half past seven ! It is a 
mistake 1" 

Some one must have arrived by acci- 
dent. Welherell must fly, and find out 
who it is. ** Fly, good Wetherell, fly ! " 

It is Sir John and Lady Finch ; and 
neither Sir John nor his watch knows 
what it is to go wrong in the matter of 
punctuality. 



Nor, indeed, does Sir John's cook dare 
go wrong, either. It is as much as her 
place is worth, to have the dinner two min- 
utes behind the hour, by the great clock 
in the hall. 

Her master arranges his walk up and 
down the long drawing-room, so as to 
bring him to the door the moment the gong 
has ceased to sound ; then there is just 
time left for him to swoop off his lady, and 
reach it again, as it is opened for their 
exit. 

Mrs. Wyndham knows nothing of this ; 
but she does know that the Finches are 
not people to be treated uncourteously. 
She must get down somehow, before Laay 
Finch's wraps are disentangled, and she 
has joined her gentlemen in the hall. 

" And I must go down by myself," cries 
the hostess, fretfully. " I did hope you 
would have been ready, Pauline, though it 
is not your fault, poor dear. But I am not 
half dressed, and I do so dislike to be hur- 
ried. One moment, child — do look: is 
this ribbon becoming? or shall I wear the 
pearls alone ? Untie the ribbon, Wether- 
ell, quick ! Now, clasp the pearls ! No, 
I don't like that ; I think I will have the 
ribbon. Run off, dear, run off, and be 
down as soon as ever you can ! " 

The party is assembled ere Pauline is 
ready. 

Accordingly, every eye is fixed upon 
her as she slowly enters, in her clouds of 
amber, the fairest, finest, saddest-hearted 
woman present. 

Oh, what a mockery is this glistening 
raiment, and the flash of these lustrous 
gems ! 

How ghastly in her eyes is this bril- 
liantly-lit-up saloon, with its rustle, and 
chatter, and mirth I 

He may be dying as she speaks I He 
may be dying as she walks along the floor ! 
He may be dying as she takes her place 
at the table I 

Any one of these trivial moments of her 
life may be to him that supreme moment 
of existence when the soul passes into the 
visible presence of its Maker I 

Do you think that she can eat, and 
drink, and smile, and laugh, with this be- 
fore her eyes ? 

Miss La Sarte is tired, very tired; she 
is not hungry ; her head aches. Some 
one says, suddenly, " Poor BlundcU's gone 
by this time, I suppose ! " and the room 
becomes unbearably hot. 

She escapes, and rushing to her cham- 
ber, alone and in the dark, cries as if her 
heart would break. 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



27 



From Blackwood's Ma^cazine. 
TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 

The marvellous way in which Africa 
has been explored during the last twenty 
years is scarcely less extraordinary than 
the sublying fact, that a continent so great 
and possessing such immense resources 
should have been reserved, as a terra in- 
cognita in its central regions, for the trav- 
ellers of our own generation. Within a 
century and a half almost the whole of 
North America has been explored, swept 
over and occupied by the expanding races 
of northern Europe ; South America has 
been occupied, in great part, by offshoots 
of the Latin race ; and yet Africa, with 
not greatly inferior possibilities of develop- 
ment, has been reserved for its own sin- 
gular people and for a few adventurous 
explorers. It is not difficult, however, to 
explain how such, in the circumstances, 
should have been the case. The great 
deserts of the northern portion of Africa, 
its unhealthy coast-line, and thick tropical 
vegetation on both sides of the equator, 
and on both sides of the continent, to- 
gether with the scanty vegetation and the 
Kaffir tribes of its long southern horn, 
presented most formidable obstacles to 
even an acquaintance with its elevated, 
temperate, and productive central regions. 
A quacter of a century ago our maps of 
Africa were almost an entire blank from ten 
degrees of north latitude to the tropic of 
Capricorn, with the exception of the coast- 
line, the valley of the Niger, and the cen- 
tral northern region. In some of our 
maps traces remained of older knowledge 
and more recent Portuguese exploration. 
Livingstone's Lake Nyassa appeared as 
" Nassa,*' and Tanganyika occupied an 
enormous, but quite indefinite space as 
" Lake Uniamesi ; " but these maps were 
exceptions rather than the rule, and the 
most important parts of Central Africa 
were either left entirely blank, or were 
filled up with great deserts, montes lunce, 
and figures of lions and dragons. 

There was, no doubt, plenty of ancient 
knowledge to have taught us better. Ptol- 
emy appears to have known a good deal 
about the geography of Central Africa; 
and even the unadventurous Hindu had 
contrived to get a rough idea of the great 
African lake region ; but somehow or 
other all this older information had fallen 
back out of sight. A better fate might 
have been expected for the Portuguese 
explorations, which had advanced very 
far into the interior of Africa, and to 
points which it has been an achievement. 



on the part of Livingstone and Cameron, 
to reach within the last few years ; but 
these explorations commanded no general 
attention, and scarcely affected the gen- 
eral European knowleage of the continent. 
If you spoke about African exploration, 
the minds of the listeners at once reverted 
to the journeys of Bruce and Park, which 
had become sort of household words, 
though in a very different way. Bruce 
was scarcely believed in as a narrator of 
facts; but he was accepted as a sort of 
gigantic liar, whose achievements in that 
way were worthy of respect. An old 
Scotch lady who knew him well assured 
us that even in the society in which he 
was welcome, his African stories were 
never believed, though the credibility of 
them has since been abundantly estab- 
lished. Park's quiet, beautiful pictures of 
Africa met with a different reception, and 
were unhesitatingly accepted, and became 
so popular in their abbreviated form, that 
few visitors to Scotland drive up the valley 
of the Yarrow without looking with kindly 
interest upon the cottage where he was 
born. Bruce's discoveries were the more 
important, because he had traced up the 
Blue Nile to its fountains among the 
mountains of Abyssinia; but the course of 
the White Nile, the real Upper Nile, re- 
mained entirely. unknown; and the prog- 
ress of exploration for many years after 
Park's time was confined to points in the 
great west shoulder of Africa accessible 
from the Mediterranean coast or from the 
coast of Guinea. 

Such a state of matters was incompat- 
ible with our modern energy and means 
for exploration. Some time before twenty 
years ago the unknown regions of Africa 
began again to attract attention, and va- 
rious attacks were made upon them from 
various quarters. The most important of 
these was, unquestionably, the expedition 
subsidized by the British government, of 
Richardson, Overweg, and Barth, which 
started from Tripoli in 1849. The two 
former of these travellers did not live to 
return, and an affecting account has been 
given of Richardson, when he was dying, 
lying on the sand and calling on his far- 
distant wife. Dr. Barth's five ponderous 
volumes recording the results of this expe- 
dition are probably the dullest narrative of 
a great journey which has ever been pre- 
sented to the world. Without going con- 
scientiously through them, it is difficult to 
realize how absolutely leaden they are, and 
what their effect might be upon even the 
strongest mind. As to heaviness they 
almost rise to a kind of sublimity ; but the 



28 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



journey they describe was a very wonder 
tul one, extending over twenty-four degrees 
of latitude from north to south, and includ- 
ing a visit to the dangerous and then al- 
most fabulous city of Timbuctoo, and to 
Kano, the ^reat commercial emporium 
of north-central Africa. Timbuctoo had 
been visited before by Park, and again by 
Major Laing ; but neither of these travel- 
lers lived to describe it, being murdered 
on their way back. Lake Tchad had been 
reached before by Clapperton and Den- 
ham, but Dr. Barth examined it thoroughly, 
and by coming on it from the north, he 
thus struck the route of explorers from the 
south-west; while also, on an excursion 
into the province of Bagirmi to the south- 
east of Lake Tchad, he approached Dar- 
fur, and thus nearly struck the route of 
explorers like Werne starling from the 
Nile valley. It was an enormous iournev 
this which Dr. Barth accomplishea, and it 
threw much light on Africa, but not be- 
neath the twelfth degree of north latitude. 
He established the important fact that the 
whole of Central Africa lying between the 
western border of Bagirmi and Timbuctoo 
was neither desert nor mountainous, but 
an elevated fertile plain affording many 
products ; but he did not touch the most 
important and interesting region. 

Voyages which have been made up the 
Niger and its eastern continuations the 
Chadda and Binue, by Allen, Laird, Old- 
field, and Baikie, had discovered a water- 
way towards the heart of north-central 
Africa, but nothing more was accomplished 
in that direction. Elsewhere on the west 
coast the pestiferous forests and wild 
tribes confined our knowledge to an ex- 
tremely narrow coast-line except where 
some great river afforded an inlet, and in 
the southern regions where adventurous 
unscientific Portuguese traders had pushed 
far into the interior. The valley of the 
Congo especially had attracted notice, and 
about 1816 Captain Tuckeyhad passed up 
it some way beyond the great Yellala Falls, 
or in all about two hundred miles from the 
coast ; but there had been no further travel 
in that direction, and our settlements on 
the west of Africa were much more de- 
voted to, and fitted for, a coast trade than 
interior exploration. 

In other directions, however, there were 
indications of progress in African travel. 
The Nile, instead of the Niger and the 
Congo, began once more to excite the 
attention of geographers. Bruce had, 
indeed, discovered the source of the Blue 
Nile ; but the source and course of the 
more important White Nile remained 



quite unknown. More than one expedi- 
tion was sent out by Mehemet Ali and his 
successors for the exploration of that river, 
but they did not advance far enough to 
solve, or even to throw light upon, the 
great problem ; and, being to a large ex- 
tent slave-hunting expeditions, they rather 
complicated matters, and did not im- 
prove the prospects of future travellers. 
No less than three Egyptian expeditions 
were sent up about the year 1840; and 
Roman Catholic missionaries established 
themselves in 1849 at Gondokoro, about 
five degrees from the equator, or in north 
latitude 4** 54m. 5sec., and nearly about 
half that distance from the northern end of 
Baker's lake, Albert Nyanza. Quite a 
large number of private travellers — such 
as Brun, Malzac, Rollet, Miani, and Werne 
— took advantage of the Egyptian ad- 
vances to try to push up to the sources of 
the White Nile ; but their advance to any 
important point was prevented, owing to 
the nature of the country, the martial char- 
acter of the native tribes, the animosity 
excited by the Egyptians, and the unset- 
tled state caused by slave-hunting which 
the Egyptians set in motion, and which 
extended far beyond the points which 
they themselves held. Captain Speke, in 
the last chapter of hiis "Journal of the 
Discovery of the Source of the Nile," has 
given a graphic description of the brutal 
conduct of the Egyptians at their advanced 
posts in the upper Nile valley, and so has 
Colonel Grant. Something must be al- 
lowed to the martial and savage charac- 
ter of the negroes in that part of Africa ; 
but Speke managed to pass through them, 
and so did Sir Samuel and Lady Baker 
afterwards ; and it is chiefly owing to the 
Egyptians that this door into the lake 
region remained absolutely closed, and 
that it is even now again closed, notwith- 
standing all the humane efforts of Sir 
Samuel Baker and of Colonel Gordon, 
when in the employ of the khcdive, to ar- 
range that northern frontier. It is worthy 
of special notice, however, that the lake 
region was approached so closely from 
that quarter long ago, without being 
reached, and, indeed, without the lakes 
being even heard of except by Brun. The 
observations of these travellers may not 
have been always accurate; but there 
seems no reason to doubt that Herr Klo- 
blecher, of the Gondokoro Mission, M. 
d'Arnaud, in the Egyptian employ, Werne, 
and Miani, got in this direction nearly to 
the third degree of north latitude, or about 
two hundred and twenty miles distant from 
the Victoria, and about ninety from the 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



29 



Albert Nyanza, but they discovered noth- 
ing beyond the uninteresting points they 
attained. Speke, indeed, at the Geograph- 
ical Society, spoke of them at^ having got 
within fifty miles of the lakes ; but that is 
only a rough way of stating how nearly 
they approached to his own discoveries, 
ana is evidently not intended to be a geo- 
graphical statement of the distance. 

The source of the Nile was destined to 
b§ reached from an entirely different quar- 
ter — from the then almost unknown east 
coast ; but there, and also from the south- 
ward, a good deal of preparatory explora- 
tion went on before the Commencement of 
the grand season of African travel. Espe- 
cial notice in this respect is due to the 
work of Dr. Krapf, and his associates, the 
Rev. Messrs. Rebmann and Erhardt, of 
what has been called the Mombas Mis- 
sion — a name which, for our general pur- 
pose, quite sufficiently indicates its locality. 
These reverend pioneers have hardly had 
sufficient justice done them by secular 
travellers ; but there is no doubt that they 
did a good deal to prepare the way for the 
grand achievements which were to follow 
their humbler efforts, especially in pre- 
paring grammars and dictionaries of the 
African dialects; in learning the modes 
of travel and exchange ; in proving pjsr- 
sonally that it was not impossible to ad- 
vance into the interior some way from the 
coast; in discovering the snow mountains, 
Kenia and Kilimandjaro; in collecting a 
vast mass of information in regard to the 
interior ; and in spreading amongst East 
Africans an idea o! the white man, as just 
and humane, and very different from the 
Arab and half-caste slave-hunters. Com- 
mander Cameron found a knowledge of 
Kisahueli sufficient to take him across the 
African continent; but it was Dr. Krapf 
who reduced that language (besides sev- 
eral other African dialects) to grammar 
and dictionary ; and we need not say how 
arduous such a task is, with a purely 
spoken language and the aid of savages 
only. Dr. Krapf established himself near 
Mombas, on the cast coast, about four 
degrees south of the equator, so far back 
as 1844, and he and his associates made 
long journeys into the interior. Unfor- 
tunately, their geographical knowledge was 
not sufficient for original scientific obser- 
vations, and their maps required not a lit- 
tle correction; but still they made a 
beginning, and, from native accounts, 
gave us information as to the existence of 
" Lake Uniamesi " or Tanganyika, which, 
however, they set down as 01 altogether 
gigantic proportions. Commander Cam- 



eron has got great credit for his courage 
and the amount of physical sufferings he 
endured — though in these respects he 
cannot, and (we doubt not) would not him- 
self, claim any superiority to the great 
African explorers; but Dr. Krapf had one 
experience, which was really more fright- 
ful than anything which Cameron or any 
of the other African travellers had to 
endure except M. Maizan. On his second 
journey to Ukumbani, he was attacked by 
robbers, lost all lie had, was separated 
from his attendants and guides, and trav- 
elled homewards alone and unarmed for 
some days till he reached a friendly tribe, 
concealing himself during the day, walk- 
ing by night and subsisting on- such raw 
grain and fruits as he could stealthily pick 
up. Fancy a poor old German missionary 
doing this in a country not only occupied 
by wild savages, but intersected by muddy 
watercourses full of crocodiles and hippo- 
potami, and covered with forests and thick 
jungle full of lions, rhinoceroses, elephants, 
wild buffaloes, leopards, and hyenas! 
This was really enough to have turned any 
man mad ; but *' praise and thanks be to 
God " was the excellent Dr. Krapf 's re- 
sponse for this crowning mercy and mani- 
festation of the divine mvor ; and he was 
particularly pleased to find that though his 
gun was broken so as to be useless for 
firing, yet the barrels of it could be turned 
into water-bottles by corking their muzzles 
" with bits of rag cut off my trousers," 
and that the water tasted delicious " in 
spite of the gunpowder flavor imparted to 
it by the barrels." 

Mombas is the best port for starting 
for the snowy mountains of eastern Afri- 
ca; but Bagomayo, opposite Zanzibar, is 
the point of departure for the lakes, and 
an attempt was made in 1845 ^^ enter that 
then wholly unknown region, by M. Mai- 
zan, a young French naval officer, who had 
made great preparations for the journey. 
He only succeeded in penetrating three 
days' march from the coast, and met with 
a areadful fate, being seized by an African 
chief Mazungera, tied up to a tree and dis- 
jointed, despite his groans and cries. 
Maizan had given no cause for this hid- 
eous barbarity, and he appears not even 
to have had arms about him when he was 
seized. The event was ascribed chiefly to 
the jealousy of the Arab traders, who 
worked upon the ignorance and supersti- 
tions of the Africans, and to the fact that 
the unfortunate Frenchman injudiciously 
carried articles with him such as a gift 
knob to his tent-pole, which were sup- 
posed to be of enormous value. His 



{ 



/ 



30 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



death was certainly not an encouragement 
to future travellers ; but it was a most 
useful warning, and so went some way to 
secure the opening up of the lake regions. 
Especially it taught the necessity of con- 
ciliating the Arabs, and of the traveller 
always having a revolver handy. Reck- 
less as the savage sometimes is of his 
own life, he will never attempt to seize a 
European who has a revolver in hand. 
African travel is sometimes thoughtlessly 
spoken of as if it were a very light and 
safe thing, which almost any one might 
undertake; but events such as tliis 
which befell M. Maizan point to a very 
different conclusion. I n East Africa alone, 
since the death of Maizan, we have had 
the murder of Dr. Roscher, who made an 
independent discovery of Lake Nvassa 
nearly about the same lime that Living- 
stone first visited it, and who was killed 
on his way back to the coast ; the murder 
of Von der Decken and his companions, 
who had long been travelling in the coun- 
try between the coast and the great snowy 
mountains; the murder of Mr. Thornton, 
the sportsman ; the suicide of Dr. Dillon, 
Commander Cameron's companion, from 
the delirium of intolerable disease ; the 
deaths of Dr. Livingstone and his nephew 
Mr. Moffat, from disease; the loss of 
about half-a-dozen members of the Univer- 
sity Mission on the river Shird; and the 
deaths, from whatever cause, of several 
Europeans who accompanied Mr. Stanley 
into Africa. Well might Colonel Chailld 
Long speak of Africa's poisoned arrows 
and its poisoned air, and exclaim, when he 
started from Cairo as the chief of Colonel 
Gordon's staff, "Central Africa, with 
all its seductive fields of allurement to the 
adventurous, could not but be regarded 
as a bourne from which but few travellers 
returned, — a path of glory which led but 
to the grave," and by an extremely un- 
pleasant route. 

While these perilous and only partially 
successful attempts upon Central Africa 
were being made from the east coast, one 
of the greatest of African travellers was 
slowly advancing from the south, and pre- 
paring himself for his great work. In the 
eqjjployment of the London Missionary 
Society, Livingstone established himself, 
soon after his leaving England in 1840, in 
central southern Africa, about the twenty- 
fifth parallel of south latitude, with general 
instructions from his society to pay special 
attention to the regions lying to the north. 
These instructions he acted upon fully, 
both in letter and in spirit. He had none 
of the brilliant dash or the prodigious 



knowledge of some other explorers ; but 
though he advanced slowly, he did so 
with marvellous persistence, ingratiating 
himself witUthe natives, and losing no op- 
portunity of acquiring the scientific and 
other knowledge which is required in an 
explorative traveller. To the last this was 
Dr. Livingstone's style of travel; he al- 
ways moved slowly, allowing his reputa- 
tion to precede him, familiarizing himself 
with native customs, and creeping, as it 
were, from point to point. Cautiously 
pursuing this course, he in time achieved 
grand results ; and probably no other Af- 
rican traveller (unless, perhaps, Mungo 
Park) ever so loved the uncomely and un- 
fortunate people of the dark continent. It 
stands to their credit that they seem in- 
stinctively to have felt and appreciated 
this affection. No other great African 
traveller has gone over such an extent of 
ground with such slender means, with so 
little defence, and meeting with so little 
dangerous opposition. When provoked 
beyond endurance, he reminded himself 
that " our grandfather fell at the battle of 
Culloden : '* but the only occasions on 
which he even threatened with his revol- 
ver were when, on one of his earlier jour- 
neys, a chief called Kanaka attempted to 
take one of his attandents as a slave ; and 
wlren, on one of his last journeys, he wit- 
nessed a brutal massacre by Arab slave- 
holders of unoffending villagers includ- 
ing women and children. Yet his courage 
was of the highest order ; and Mr. Stan- 
ley was led to conclude from his demeanor 
when they were threatened with an attack, 
that he had literally no fear. 

Commander Cameron has mentioned 
that when he reached the west coast his 
health was drunk, " to the honor of the 
first European who had ever succeeded in 
crossing tropical Africa from east to west" 
— and this is literally true ; but long be- 
fore his day Livingstone had succeeded 
in crossing tropical Africa from west to 
east, which was quite as difficult an 
achievement. Starting from St. Paul de 
Loanda, on the west coast, a considerable 
way north from Benguella, where Came- 
ron came out, Livingstone came out at 
the mouth of the Zambesi on the east 
coast, a considerable way farther south 
than Bagomayo, where Cameron went in. 
We shall afterwards point out where the 
lines of these two journeys intersect, and 
compare them with each other ; but mean- 
while it is well to note that, so far back as 
the years 1855-56, Livingstone did cross 
the African continent within the tropic of 
Capricorn ; that at one point of his jour- 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



3' 



ney, far in the interior, he approached 
within a few degrees of the equator ; and 
that his missionary travels and researches, 
which were published in 1857, threw a 
flood of light upon the whole interior of 
the continent of Africa. It is almost un- 
necessary to say that we do not refer to 
this matter in order to detract in the 
slightest from the great achievement of 
Commander Cameron ; but only in order 
to point out what the great lines of Afri- 
can exploration have been, and what are 
really the achievements which will stand 
the test of time, and obtain such immor- 
tal honor as human civilization has it in 
its power to bestow. 

It may thus be seen, to sum up gener- 
ally, how our knowledge of Central Afri- 
ca stood twenty years ago, when the great 
period of exploration began. The knowl- 
edge of the Greeks, the older Arabs, 
and the Hindus had been lost sight of. 
The unscientific journeys of the Portu- 
guese traders had attracted no attention, 
and established no interesting or impor- 
tant facts. Explorations from the west 
tcoast had ceased. Barth had penetrated 
from the north to within twelve degrees 
of the equator, and established the exist- 
ence of an immense fertile zone lying 
beyond the great desert of the Sahara. 
Explorations up the White Nile had near- 
ly approached the lake region of Central 
Africa, but had entirely failed to reach it, or 
even to collect knowledge of its existence. 
Explorations, attended with great danger 
and difficulty, had begun on the east 
coast; and Livingstone had advanced far 
from the south, gaining much knowledge 
of the hiterior of Africa, which at the 
time was commonly supposed to be occu- 
pied by great deserts. 

The great era of modern African travel 
commenced with the discovery of the lake 
region of Central Africa by Captain Rich- 
ard Burton and Captain Manning Speke. 
They started from the coast of Africa op- 
posite Zanzibar, ahd discovered the great 
lakes Tanganyika and Victoria Nyanza, 
the latter being more especially the dis- 
covery of Captain Speke, who made a sol- 
itary excursion to it, while his companion 
remained at Kazeh in Unyanyembe, col- 
lecting information and making prepara- 
tions for their return journey. It was a 
great exploration, looking alike at the re- 
sults gained and the tremendous difficul- 
ties in the way. As to the splendor of the 
results, we have only to remember that the 
head-waters of both the Nile and the Con- 
go were discovered on this expedition, for 
it was on it that Speke first visited Lake 



Victoria Nyanza; and notwithstanding 
Mr. Stanley's curious theory, there can be 
little doubt that Lake Tanganyika is the 
great head-water of the £ongo, though 
Lake Bangweolo has also some claim to 
the distinction. We have already briefly 
indicated how great were the obstacles to 
entering Africa from the east coast — how 
speedy and dreadful was the fate of M. 
Maizan, who first attempted to penetrate 
the interior from Bagomayo ; and, if time 
allowed, it might be easy to show how 
enormous was the force of the slave-hold- 
ing, slave-hunting, commercial, and other 
interests opposed to any exploration of 
Africa from this quarter. And yet the 
most formidable source of opposition af- 
forded the only possible highway from 
this, then the only feasible, direction into 
the heart of Africa. The sovereignty of 
Zanzibar was an offshoot from that of the 
imaum of Muscat; and the Arabs of Zan- 
zibar knew about the great lakes, the paths 
to them, and the means of conveyance. 
Slave-dealers and slave-hunters as they all 
were, they were not all wholly corrupt, 
wholly vile. In the purer Arabs there 
was something left of the loftier feelings 
of the deserts of Arabia — of that now al- 
most lost influence which contested with 
Charles Martel the battle of Tours, and 
enlightened the thick ecclesiastical gloom 
of the early Middle Ages of Europe with 
some knowledge of the elements of phys- 
ical science. 

At the time we write of there was only 
one European who could have turned this 
Arab element to account in breaking 
through what, at that time, appeared to be 
the impenetrable shell of Central Africa. 
This was Captain Richard Burton, who 
had not only wandered frequently in Sind 
in native disguise, but had even visited 
Medineh and Mecca, the sacred cities of 
Mohammedanism, disguised as a native- 
born Oriental Islamite, and was thoroughly 
acquainted with the language, character, 
and customs of the Arabs, besides pos- 
sessing a quite exceptional capacity for 
acquiring languages, and, as Mr. Win- 
wood Reade has remarked, an unusual 
combination of a most powerful brain and 
body. Commander Cameron — who, even 
at this day, had such painful experience of 
the route to Tanganyika, on which he lost 
two of his European companions, and 
nearly perished himself — has said that 
Burton's " Lake Regions of Central 
Africa " is " a work which, for minuteness 
of detail, must ever stand foremost among 
books of descriptive geography ; " and 
Mr. Stanley well speaks of him as '^ the 



32 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



illustrious Burton." Captain Burton has 
the merit of having seen that Central 
Africa could be best approached from the 
east coast, and of accomplishing that, 
with Speke's aid, in spite of most for- 
midable difficulties. 

But the discovery of the lake region of 
Central Africa was not the only result of 
Burton's expedition of 1857-59. He has, 
unquestionably, the glory of having dis- 
covered the lake region, in so far as it was 
a discovery of modern times, and not a 
mere re-echo of ancient knowledge, and of 
the unscientific travels of Arab and Portu- 
guese slave-hunters; just as Speke has 
the glory of being the modern discoverer 
of the source of the Nile. The Egyptian 
expeditions, and the efforts of private 
travellers up the Nile valley, had entirely 
failed to reach this lake region, or even to 
bring word of it. Dr. Livino^stone did not 
discover Lake Nyassa until the end of 
1858; and Dr. Roscher, who had pro- 
ceeded almost directly to it from the east 
coast, discovered it a little after. The 
Mombas missionaries got extremely vague 
accounts of the lake region ; but they did 
not even approach it, being cut off from 
it, even at their furthest points of explora- 
tion (which were not very far in the inte- 
rior) by great snowy mountains. 

Spelce's journey in 1858 from Kazeh to 
Lake Victoria Nyanza, opened up an en- 
tirely new district of Africa, and, suc- 
ceeded as it was by his longer exploration 
in company with Captain, now Colonel, 
Grant, finally resolved the problem of the 
sources of the Nile. On reaching this 
new lake, it flashed upon him, almost by 
inspiration, that he had reached the great 
source of the Nile ; but the inspiration 
was that of a geographer and traveller 
who understood the country over which he 
had passed, and saw that he was on a new 
watershed. The mere journey itself 
proved that he possessed erplorative pow- 
ers of the highest order, and that, though 
deficient in some respects, he was able, 
like Dryden's Alexander, to conquer men 
if not their languages. His powers in 
these respects were displayed in a still 
more splendid manner, when, in his great 
journey of 1860-61-63, in company with 
Grant, he returned to J^ake Victoria Ny- 
anza, travelled round its western shore, 
saw the White Nile issuing from its north- 
ern extremity, learned of the existence of 
Lake Albert Nyanza under the name of 
the Luta Nsige, and pursued the valley of 
the Nile until he triumphantly emerged at 
Gondokoro, after having passed through 
a vast extent of new country, and man- 



aged to deal with some of the most pow- 
erful and dangerous princes to be found in 
all Africa. Indeed, had Speke not pos- 
sessed the most extraordinary powers for 
dealing with savages and managing his 
attendants, he could never have made that 
great journey ; and though he was far 
from being good at expressing his rea- 
sons for the faith that was in him, he had 
an immense power of forming right con- 
clusions ; and, in this case, these conclu- 
sions have all been firmly established by 
later exploration. Victoria Nyanza is 
one immense lake, and not a series of 
small lakes and overfiooded swamps, as at 
one time there was some reason to sus- 
pect. Mr. Stanley's extensive voyages 
upon Victoria Nyanza have set that ques- 
tion at rest, though it is true there are 
separate small lakes in its immediate 
vicinity. Victoria Nyanza is the great 
reservoir, the head-water, of the Nile, 
though the river from it enters the north- 
ern extremity of Lake Albert Nyanza, 
which Speke first in a manner discov- 
ered, and which Baker first visited, and 
though the small lake Alexandra, which 
Mr. Stanley claims to have discovered, is 
a feeder ot the great Victoria. There is 
now no manner of doubt that Lake Vic- 
toria Nyanza is an enormous lake, the 
largest in Africa, and the great source and 
head-water of the Nile; but, as regards 
Speke, that is only the verification of a 
special great discovery, and proof of his 
truthfulness as a traveller and of his won- 
derful geographical judgment and instinct. 
Even had it turned out otherwise, if Tan- 
ganyika or Bangweolo had turned' out to 
be the head-water of the Nile,' Captain 
Speke would still have had the great glory 
of having been the first to pass from East 
Africa near the equator to the sources of 
the Nile, and from thence down its valley 
into Egypt, or from the southern to the 
northern hemisphere within the watershed 
of the Nile. We could not desire all the 
great African travellers to be exactly like 
one another, and in order that they snould 
differ, it is necessarily implied that the 
one should have powers and advantages 
which the other does not possess, or, to 
put it otherwise, that the one shall have 
defects which the other has not. The 
discoverer of the source of the Nile was 
very different from his g^eat compeers ; 
he had greater dash and simple direct 
power than any of them : and no finer 
proof can be found of the impression 
which he made in Central Africa, than 
the fact that every one who has since gone 
up to Lake Victoria Nyanza — Baker, 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



33 



Linant, Long, and Stanley — has been 
welcomed by the savage chiefs on the 
ground of being " Speeky*s brother." 

In his discovery of the source of the 
Nile, Speke had a most able coadjutor in 
Captain James Augustus Grant, an Indian 
officer of genuine and unpretentious char- 
acter, but singularly well fitted for the 
work of exploration which devolved upon 
him. His reputation, in that respect, 
may not have had full justice done to it by 
a portion of the public, owing to the gen- 
erous manner in which he Jias kept him- 
self in the background, giving Speke all 
the praise of havinoj discoverea the source 
of the Nile ; but his own share in the en- 
terprise was no small one. During a 
large portion of this arduous journey he 
was separated from his companion, having 
to bring up a separate portion of the expe- 
dition, oeing laid up by severe illness, or 
being sent on in front while Speke made a 
detour. Even when entirely lame he man- 
aged to push on alone, ancl showed great 
tact in managing the savage and greedy 
chiefs with whom he had to deal. His 
** Walk across Africa," in which he has 
recorded his personal experiences of this 
great journey, is a most interesting vol- 
ume, full of information as to the new and 
strange people whose countries he trav- 
ersed ; and as to the botany and meteorol- 
ogy of these countries it is especially 
valuable, giving us an intelligible account 
of the products of Central Africa, and the 
modes of living of the people. In that 
respect he is superior to every other Afri- 
can traveller. In reading his unpretend- 
ing but most valuable pages, we are en- 
abled really to understand the life of the 
people whom he describes, the character 
of their country, and the conditions of 
their existence. 

The great supplement to Captain 
Speke's discoveries was afforded by Sir 
Samuel Baker, who, along with his heroic 
wife, in 1863 moved up the Upper Nile 
route which Speke had just descended, 
though not altogether on the same line ; 
passed safely through the territories of 
several savage chiefs; struck the great 
lake Luta Nsige, which he named Albert 
Nyanza; coasted along it for sixty miles, 
and discovered that the Nile issuing from 
Victoria Nyanza falls into it, close to its 
northern extremity, and issues out of it 
towards the north. This was a great gain 
to African geography, and explained some 
curious matters which Speke did not see 
his way to understand, but upon which he 
was careful to avoid premature theorizing. 
Baker's journey was also very interesting 

LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX, 939 



as proving that, under certain protecting 
conditions, even a European lady might 
penetrate into the centre of Africa. His 
succeeding journeys, when he was made a 
pasha, and appointed governor of the 
Upper Nile province of Egypt, have added 
little to our geographical knowledge of 
Africa, though a good deal to our ethnp- 
logical. They have aided in dispelling 
some illusions both as to the exalted char- 
acter of the savage negro and as to the 
real meaning and effects of the philan- 
thropic efforts of the Egyptian govern- 
ment to occupy and civilize new provinces. 
Some discredit and great distrust were 
brought upon Sir Samuel Baker by his 
doings as an Egyptian pasha; but the 
apparently similar results of Colonel Gor- 
don's pashaship show that the blame rests 
not so much directly upon the man as upon 
the position in which the man places him- 
self. 

Meanwhile, Livingstone had not been 
idle. The account of his travels, pub- 
lished in 1857, had brought him so much 
repute in England, that in 1858 he re- 
lumed to the Zambesi as her Majesty's 
consul to the Portuguese province there. 
Ample funds had been placed at his dis- 
posal for further exploration, a river 
steamboat, and European associates. In 
this way Livingstone did not distinguish 
himself so much as he had done before, 
and did afterwards, as a solitary traveller. 
Perhaps he expected too much from his 
companions, who could hardly be expected 
to equal him in explorative and African 
enthusiasm ; perhaps they were not well 
selected for the particular purpose. But 
in the end of 1858 the veteran traveller, 
striking to the north of the Zambesi, dis- 
covered the minor lake Shirwa, and from 
that proceeded a few miles farther north 
to the great lake Nyassa, which had not 
been visited except by Portuguese traders. 
As we have mentioned. Dr. Roscher, a 
German savant who had for some time 
been working away as an explorer in East 
Africa, made an independent discovery of 
Nyassa very shortly after this, starling 
from the coast nearly opposite Zanzibar, 
thus pursuing a very difficult and danger- 
ous course ; but, unfortunately, he was 
murdered on his return journey, and the 
narrative of his exploration has been 
almost entirely lost. Colonel Grant, be- 
fore starting on his great journey, had the 
satisfaction of witnessing, and almost 
directing, the execution of two of Rosch- 
er*s murderers. 

These discoveries of Burton, Speke, 
Baker, and Livingstone completed, speak- 



34 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



ing generally, our knowledge of the great 
African lakes which drain into the Medi- 
terranean and the Indian Ocean. They 
had also disclosed the existence of Lake 
Tanganyika, which, there is every proba- 
bility, is the head-water of the Congo, 
which drains into the Atlantic, and is part 
of a lacustrine region that lies between 
the watersheds of the Mediterranean and 
Indian Ocean, and which, considering 
where its outlet is, lies wonderfully close 
to the east coast of Africa. There re- 
mained to be accomplished the further 
examination of this central lake region, 
which has since been achieved by Dr. 
Livingstone and Commander Cameron. 

The interest thus excited in Africa led 
to some small explorations on the west 
coast, interesting enough in themselves, 
but of no great importance, and throwing 
little or no light on the interior of the con- 
tinent. M. Paul du Chaillu examined 
regions not far from the coast, between 
the equator and the Congo, which were 
chiefly remarkable as being the habitat of 
the gorilla, which was supposed at one 
time to supply the missing link between 
man and the monkey. Captain Burton 
availed himself of his position as British 
consul at Fernando Po, to run over the 
whole west coast of Africa, touching off 
its peculiarities, and those of its people, 
in various books, with his extraordinary 
knowledge, and in his usual sardonic man- 
ner. He explored the Cameroons Moun- 
tain, went to Abeokuta, was commissioner 
to Dahomey, visited the gorilla countrv, 
ascended the Congo up to the Yellala 
Falls, and gathered an immense mass of 
interesting mformation in regard to West 
Africa, but seems to have made no attempt 
to attack the interior of the continent 
from that side. Mr. Winwood Reade, 
also, paid two visits to western Africa, 
and presented the English public with 
many very curious facts and graphic de- 
scriptions. Sir Garnet Wolseley*s little 
war, and advance upon Coomassie, also 
did something to direct attention to that 
part of the world. The advance, however, 
in regard to West Africa, was not so 
much m the way of new exploration as in 
that of bringing the skill of trained ob- 
servers and accomplished Hterateurs to 
bear on the fauna of the country, includ- 
ing the aboriginal negro. Hitherto it can 
hardly be said that the centre of Africa 
has been reached from the portion of the 
west coast most contiguous to it. There 
has been no exploration to speak of from 
that line, so great are the difficulties, and 
chiefly the climatic difficulties, though it 



is evident that the most formidable of 
these latter extend only a short way in- 
land. It is only south of the Congo that 
we come upon a coast-land which does 
not present almost impenetrable forests 
and a deadly miasma. Livingstone and 
the Portuguese who entered, or rather ap- 
proached. Central Africa from the west 
coast, had always to avoid the climatic, 
though not the geographic, tropical region, 
until they got far inland upon the elevated 
central plateau. 

In pointing out what had now been 
achieved, we have rather anticipated not 
so much actual results as the veriflcation 
of these results. There still remained a 
reasonable doubt as to whether Tan- 
ganyika might not be the head source of 
the Nile ; as to whether, on the contrary, it 
drained into Lake Nyassa ; as to whether 
it drained anywhere at all ; and, in general, 
as to the whole water-system of Central 
Africa. In order to solve these problems 
and continue his great system (for such it 
might be called) Dr. Livingstone again 
entered Africa, and this time alone, in 
1866. His funds were rather inadeouate 
for his purpose, and would have been 
wholly inadequate but for ;^iooo which 
were subscribed for him, at the last mo- 
ment, bv the citizens of Bombay, from 
which place he proceeded to the east coast 
of Africa. From this — his last and grand- 
est exploration, which extended over 
nearly seven years — Dr. Livingstone was 
fated never to return ; but it was a splen- 
did achievement, and promises eventually 
to be of incalculable importance to Africa. 

Dr. Livingstone started by a new route 
for Lake Nyassa, leaving the east coast a 
little north of the mouth of the Rovuma 
River, and about the tenth parallel of south 
latitude ; and he desired to have at once 
struck the north end of Lake Nyassa; but 
the state of the country, desolated by 
slave-hunting carried on under the indirect 
(though, no doubt, as regards the home 
government, the unconscious) support of 
Portuguese authority, found him drawn 
towards the south, and compelled him to 
turn on his old tracks and go round the 
south end of Nyassa. This was a great 
disappointment to him ; but it led him into 
regions where his explorative powers could 
be turned to better account than if he had 
at once struck the north end of Nyassa, 
turned immediately on Tanganyika, and 
followed out his intense desire of examin- 
ing the sources of the Nile, which had 
already been determined sufficiently for all 
immeciiate purposes. The result of this 
detour was that Livingstone struck upon 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



35 



Lake Bangweolo, or Bemba, the river Lua- 
laba, and the great lacustrine region which 
lies to the west of Tanganyika, and along 
with that lake constitute the head-waters 
of the Congo — the great highway into the 
centre of Africa. We need say little about 
the further journeyings of this great trav- 
eller, of the vast extent of unknown re- 
gions which he explored, of the uncer- 
tainty which for so long hung over his fate, 
of his relief by Mr. Stanley when his for- 
tunes were at the lowest, and when, sup- 
posing hiinself to have been forgotten and 
lorsaken by the civilized world, he seems 
to have quietly made up his mind to sit 
still and die in Ujiji. What a wonderful 
lifting of the clouds, what a wonderful 
change in the dreary, sad outlook it must 
have been, when Mr. Stanley burst in upon 
him with news that he was still valued, 
still cared for, and that American enter- 
prise had come to aid and encourage him ! 
On this occasion even the fighting reporter 
becomes pious, recognizes the hand of an 
overruling Providence, and almost rivals 
the simple Suabian theolo^of Dr. Krapf. 

A hundred chances might have prevent- 
ed Mr. Stanley from meeting Dr. Living- 
stone: he had no idea where Livingstone 
was until he almost stumbled upon him ; 
he went straight on blindly, merely follow- 
ing (with certain necessary detours) the 
route, which had been twice traversed be- 
fore, from the coast to Lake Tanganyika ; 
yet he went direct to his aim like an arrow 
from its bow, which, however, was onlvan 
incidental achievement, and is hardly a 
warrant for his wandermg about Africa for 
unnumbered years, groping into the creeks 
of lakes and civilizing the negroes by 
means of explosive shells. 

While we can sympathize with Living- 
stone when he was relieved by Mr. Stan- 
ley, and with Stanley when he relieved 
Livingstone, we cannot but feel regret that 
the great, calm, unpretending African 
traveller did not, in his last days, know the 
full value of his explorations. Livingstone 
had not even the consolation of Moses of 
seeing the promised land toward which he 
had wandered and endured for thirty 
years. In these his last explorations the 
idea occupied his mind that he was dis- 
covering the ultimate sources of the Nile, 
the Fountains of Herodotus, and, in gen- 
eral, something new and decisive in regard 
to the old "father of floods." It will be 
in the recollection of all how painful to 
him was the suspicion that he might be 
really working at the sources of the Con- 
go, and not at those of " the glorious old 
Nile ; " and the homely way in which he 



expressed his dislike at the idea of running 
the risk of becoming " black man's meat " 
for anvthingless, geographically speaking, 
than the sources of the Nile. It was, no 
doubt, one of those illusions which keep 
men up to their work, and so was one of 
those tricks of nature which Schopenhauer 
has so severely stigmatized ; but it was 
hardly to be expected in so good and sen- 
sible a man. However, there it was ; and 
in the painful state of uncertainty which 
thus arose Livingstone died, on the south- 
ern shore of his own lake, Bangweolo, his 
last thoughts and pravers being for the 
dark continent which he so much loved. 
What a consolation would it have been for 
him had he perceived that his discovery 
of the sources of the Congo was really a 
far more important matter than anything 
hecould have done in regard to the sources 
of the Nile, and was the commencement 
of opening up a highway for civilization 
into the heart of Africa ! . 

While Livingstone was thus completing 
his great life-work, another intrepid ex- 
plorer was working towards the sources of 
the Congo, and visiting an entirely new 
region of Africa. Dr. Georg Schweinfurth, 
the German botanist, supported by the 
Berlin " Humboldt Institution of Natural 
Philosophy and Travels," turned his atten- 
tion to the equatorial districts traversed by 
the western affluents of the Upper Nile. 
Werne and others had done something in 
that direction ; but Schweinfurth, in his 
expedition of 1868-70, advanced far beyond 
these travellers, and entered upon what, in 
every sense, was entirely virgin ground. 
Keeping always to the westward of the 
Nile, and advancing beyond the watershed 
of its tributaries to rivers which either 
join the Congo or drain into Lake Tchad, 
he got to a parallel of latitude nearly cor- 
responding with the northern end of Lake 
Albert Nyanza. He was well entitled to 
call the record of his travels " The Heart 
of Africa," because he really reached the 
heart of the African continent as no one 
has done either before or since. In the 
before unknown kingdom of Monbuttoo, 
which was his farthest point of exploration, 
Schweinfurth was to the west of the great 
lake system of Central Africa, and thus 
advanced into that vast unknown remon 
which lies directly between it and the west 
coast. He was fortunate in hitting upon 
a region and a time when he had the aid 
of Egyptian traders suiting themselves to 
the necessities and wants of African 
chiefs, without everything having been 
thrown into confusion by the conquering 
ambition of the Egyptian government oa 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



36 

the one band, and its attempt, on the other, 
to meet the European demand for putting 
down the slave-trade. Something, also, 
may be granted to Dr. Schweinfurth's 
reputation as a botanist, which was a 
particularly harmless one, and was very 
gratifying to the quidnuncs oi that portion 
of Africa who are not less bent than the 
similar class of men in civilized countries 
to find a satisfactory explanation of any- 
thing which appears to them extraordinary. 
Dr. Schweinfurth's habit of going into the 
jungle, examining leaves, and pulling up 
plants, while his negro attendants took 
every opiX)rtunity of having a sleep, was 
very naturally explained by the supposi- 
tion (as he had come from vegetationless 
regions, of which the negroes had some 
idea from the few of their number who 
had seen the sandy deserts of Nubia) that 
he was an enormous and abnormal " eater 
of leaves." The Niam-Niam, and the 
strange Negro-Semitic people of Monbut- 
too, could quite sympathize with this weak- 
ness. They themselves were cannibals, 
and were quite conscious that their weak- 
ness in that respect was looked upon with 
a pardonable disgust by the Egyptian 
traders, by the Nubian soldiers, and by 
some surrounding tribes accompanying 
these traders. Even Munza, the aristo- 
cratic and really self-contained king of 
Monbuttoo, who, according to rumor, 
required a young child every day to supply 
him with tender food, acknowledged that 
he kept anthropophagism in the back- 
ground when he was visited by Dr. 
Schweinfurth. Colonel Long also mentions 
that, when he made a later visit to the 
Niam-Niam, which Schweinfurth passed 
through on his way to Monbuttoo, his 
Niam-Niam auxiliaries, after a battle with 
an opposing tribe, had the delicacy to 
encamp some distance off in order to carry 
out their culinary operations. 1 1 may thus 
be understood how Dr. Schweinfurth's 
supposed weakness for the vegetable king- 
dom was quite a passport of protection 
for him. It was an abnormal appetite to 
be symp;ithized with; and probably was 
largely availed of by all his attendants for 
his protection and for their own. 

Though they are cannibals, like the 
Fans of the west coast, whom they greatly 
resemble, the Niam-Niam and the people 
of Monbuttoo appear to be out of sight 
the most civilized and humane of the prim- 
itive savage tribes of Africa; and this 
goes to support the idea that cannibalism, 
like slavery, is one of the means which 
lead up to civilization. It can easily be 
understood how anthropophagism may 



give an exceptional advantage to a savage 
or semi-savage tribe, by increasinjg the 
supply of cheap food and by decreasing 
the number of unproductive people. It is 
interesting to notice that among the Niam- 
Niam and Monbuttoos, human fat seems 
to occupy a place very similar to that 
which Gdnsefett does in German cookery ; 
and that persons who find themselves get- 
ting corpulent in that region become un- 
easy and alarmed for their own safety, 
which must be a very powerful incentive 
to keeping up muscular vigor with conse- 
quent health and strength. This is very 
horrible to contemplate : but modern scien- 
tific observation has to do with facts, not 
fictions ; and there are many things much 
more revolting and much more dreadful 
involved in the basis and conditions of 
sentient existence in so far as we are ac- 
quainted with it. 

Geographically, Dr. Schweinfurth did 
not determine the most important problem 
which he had to deal with — namely, 
whether the rivers he came across drained 
into the Congo or into Lake Tchad. One 
of them at least, supposed to be the Welle, 
was a very large stream. It flowed west- 
ward, and, there could be little doubt, took 
its rise in the Blue Mountains, rising to 
the west of Baker's lake, Albert Nyanza. 
In his explorations. Dr. Schweinfurth 
approached Barth*s explorations from the 
north-west ; and though his book is inter- 
esting, it is, unfortunately, rather heavy, 
confused, not very well put together, far 
too long, and is wanting in that subordina- 
tion of particulars to generals which even 
the ordinary German scientific mind is 
usually so well able to supply. 

We may now turn to the explorations in 
the lake regions which have been lately 
made from the Nile valley by Colonel 
Gordon's officers, in the employ of the 
khedive of Egypt. In 1874, Colonel 
Chains Long, the chief of Gordon's staff, 
advanced from Gondokoro to Lake Victoria 
Nyanza, paying a visit to King Mtesa, 
whom Speke first introduced to the civil- 
ized world. Colonel Long suffered much 
from climate, as well as from the savage 
opposition of native tribes, and he writes 
of the country and of its people in the most 
condemnatory manner ; but he does not 
seem to have had a sufficient entourage^ 
and he too pointedly brings out the moral 
that Central Africa is a place fitted only 
for native Egyptian troops. On by far 
the greater part of his short excursion 
Dr. Schweinfurth enjoyed perfect health, 
and Speke and Grant did not find the 
rainy climate of the lake regions to be at 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



37 



all so bad as it has been represented by 
Colonel Long. The contributions to 
geography afforded by the latter traveller 
are, that he personally determined a very 
small portion of the Nile^s course between 
the great lakes and Gondokoro — the por- 
tion between Urondogani and Mrooli — 
which neither Speke nor Baker had gone 
over ; and that he discovered, on that line, 
an insignificant body of water, about 
twenty, miles long, which he has called 
Lake Ibrahim, which is about north lat- 
itude I** 3pm., and which, he seems to 
think, gives him a claim to be considered 
one of the discoverers of the Nile sources. 
He claims to have been the first explorer 
of the whole portion of the Nile between 
Urondogani and Kamma Falls ; but Speke 
had gone over the part between Mrooli 
and the Falls. Colonel Long also made 
an excursion to the west of the Nile into 
the country of the Niam-Niam ; but he 
has added little to the information which 
Schweinfurlh had given us before in regard 
to these (for Africa) really refined canni- 
bals. The most extraordinary thing about 
his expedition is, that in summing up his 
results he claims as one of them (** Central 
Africa: Naked Truths of Naked Peo- 
ple,'' p. 306) that ** M'Tsd (Mtesa), king of 
Ueunda, had been visited, and the proud 
African monarch made a willing subject ; 
and his country, rich in ivory, and popu- 
lous, created the southern limit of Egypt." 
But when we turn to his account of his 
interviews with the king we find nothing 
whatever to justify such a conclusion, but 
something quite the contrary. He says 
nothing whatever of having broached the 
subject of submission to Egypt to King 
Mtesa ; and the probability is, that had he 
done so he would have been immediately 
beheaded. According even to his own 
account, the speech he made (in Arabic) 
to Mtesa (p. 106) was as follows : ** O 
M*Tsd, great king of Africa, I have come 
in the name of the great sultan at Cairo 
to present you his gracious salutations. 
The world has heard of a great African 
king, and my august sovereign, in sending 
me to him, wishes me thus to express his 
kindly friendship and interest for one for 
whom he wishes only continued health 
and greatness." This is quite incompat- 
ible with the assumption of having added 
this particular king to the list of Egyptian 
tributaries; and it is absurd to suppose 
that a powerful and proud African poten- 
tate, who had never bowed to a superior, 
would consent to, or for a moment enter- 
tain, such a proposal, made bv a half-dead 
Egyptian officer, accompanieci by a couple 



of soldiers. Yet it is noticeable that for 
this achievement the khedive paid Colonel 
Long the most flattering compliments, and 
gave him promotion and decorations. 

Another expedition to Lake Victoria 
Nyanza was made in 1875 by M. Ernest 
Linant, also one of Gordon's officers, who 
met Mr. Stanley at the court of Mtesa, 
and brought back letters from that trav- 
eller ; but he does not seem himself to 
have obtained any new geographical re- 
sults, and on his return he was massacred, 
^ilong with thirty-six soldiers, actuallv 
withm sight of Colonel Gordon's head- 
quarters, and new capital of the province, 
at Bedden, only fifteen miles distant from 
Gondokoro, which does not say much for 
the progress which had then been made in 
pacifying the country. After punishing 
the tribe guilty of this act. Colonel Gor- 
don himself advanced as far as Mrooli, 
and attacked the chief Keba Rega, who 
had always shown himself hostile to the 
Egyptians. The result of this was that — 
as officially stated by Cherif Pasha, the 
Egyptian foreign minister — a rival of 
Keba Rega " a iti appeU d ltd succider 
comme reprisentant du gouvcrnement dt$ 
kh^divcy Keba Rega is belter known as 
Kamrasi, who behaved so badly to Speke, 
and wanted Lady Baker to be left with 
him ; so it is gratifying to learn that he 
has at last been cast out on the cold world : 
but this does not justify the assumption 
that Mtesa is a vassal, and that the whole 
lake region has been annexed by a power 
itself tributary, insolvent, which manages 
its old territory so ill, and w4iich uses one 
or two high-class Englishmen, such as 
Baker and Gordon, as mere warming-pans 
for itself and its negroid officers. Mili- 
tary posts have also been established by 
Colonel Gordon (though apparently not 
personally) at Urondogani, at a spot not 
far from the Ripon Falls and Lake Vic- 
toria Nvanza, and at Makungo, on the 
shore of Lake Albert Nyanza, near the 
mouth of the Somerset River. Certainly 
Colonel Gordon has not been idle; and 
Cherif Pasha, in his summing up of the 
results which Gordon has achieved, goes 
on to make the following remarkable state- 
ment : ^^At'nsi est accomplie V annexion d 
r Egypt e de tous les territoires sis an tour 
dcs grands lacs VictoHa et Albert, gut, 
avcc leur affluents et le fieuve Somerset, 
ouvrent d la navigation tin vaste champ 
d' explorations que Gordon Pasha pripare 
jusqud prhent.^^ This is one ot the 
most gigantic annexations on record, even 
though the most of it as yet has been done 
only by stroke of pen. If some nations 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



38 

are now afraid to annex the smallest por- 
tion of territory, it is evident that some 
other nations can still do huge convey- 
ances of that kind. Colonel Gordon has 
left that portion of " Egyptian " territory, 
and, so far as we are aware, there are no 
Englishmen now employed by Egypt in 
and near that African lake region which 
Englishmen have discovered, and which, 
it would even seem. Englishmen have con- 
quered. The Romans were advised not to 
attempt the Ethiopic portion of the Nile 
valley, and they drew back from the enter- 
prise : but it has been undertaken in our 
day by " the great sultan at Cairo." 

Signor Gessi, another of Gordon's 
agents, succeeded last year in achieving a 
performance of the same kind in regard to 
Albert Nyanza. He got up to that lake 
with a small steamer and two iron life- 
boats, and established a so-called military 
station at Makungo, as we have already 
mentioned. On this occasion, according 
to Colonel Gordon's telegram to the Geo- 
graphical Society, they hoisted the Egyp- 
tian flag "on the banks of Lake Albert, 
in the presence of the officers, soldiers, 
and natives ; and all the assemblage prayed 
for long life and continued victory for his 
Highness the Khedive, and the princes 
his sons, and all those regions and their 
inhabitants came under the rule of the 
khedival government^ This style of an- 
nouncement is quite Scriptural in its 
brevity, reminding one of the dealings of 
Israel with the Canaanites ; and there is a 
fine largeness of grasp in the phrase " all 
those regions end their inhabitants." 

Signor Gessi, however, did something 
for geography in this region which he so 
summarilv annexed. He managed, in his 
iron life-boats (\Ye do not hear anything 
about the steamer), to reach the northern 
end of Albert Nyanza, and determined 
it to be a lake one hundred and ninety 
miles in length, with an average breadth 
of fifty miles, but was not able to make an 
entire circuit of the shore. At the south 
end the water is very shallow, and the 
lake is succeeded by great forests. On the 
west there are high mountains and great 
forests, presenting almost impenetrable 
obstacles to travellers. On the east a 
river empties itself into the lake ; but its 
current is so strong that navigation of it 
would be dangerous. There is not much 
new information here ; but Baker's ac- 
counts are confirmed as well as a little 
added to, and it is interesting to notice 
that, as Colonel Gordon remarks, " Speke, 
from native report, put Lake Albert in 
nearly the same position, and about the 



same size, as Gessi found it." The rapid 
river coming from the east is rather a cu- 
rious phenomenon, for it cannot be the 
Somerset Nile which is referred to. 

We must not altogether pass over the 
independent travels, for they can hardly 
as yet be called fresh explorations, of Mr. 
Henry Stanley. That gentleman's discov- 
ery 01 Livingstone brought him so much 
dclat with a large portion of the public 
that he was sent oack into Central Africa, 
supported by the combined funds of a 
New York and a London newspaper. He 
was thus enabled to take an English-built 
boat from Zanzibar to Victoria Nyanza, 
and he made a detailed survey of that lake, 
fully supporting Speke's estimate of its 
magnitude and importance. M. Linant 
met him at the court of Mtesa, in Ug mda, 
where he was very well received by^hat 
king, whom he claims to have half con- 
verted to Christianity. Mr. Stanley's own 
Christianity appears to be of a rather mar- 
tial order. On his journey to Lake Vic- 
toria, and when navigating that great in- 
land sea, he had many severe conflicts 
with the natives, killing and wounding 
great numbers of them by aid of our mod- 
ern firearms. Even according to his own 
showing (and he is not likely to be an un- 
favorable reporter of his own conduct) he 
exercised quite unnecessary severity in 
dealing with the people of the country, and 
has done almost as much as the Egyptians 
to make the neighborhood of Victoria 
Nyanza most dangerous for future trav- 
ellers. 

Mr. Stanley, like Colonel Long with 
Lake Ibrahim, also claims to be a discov- 
erer of the sources of the Nile. He has 
discovered an " Alexandra Nile," and a 
small lake on a higher level than the great 
Victoria Nyanza, which smaller body of 
water he proposes to call Lake Alexan- 
dra, in honor of the Princess of Wales. 
We know about the Blue Nile and the 
White Nile, and even the Somerset Nile 
and the Giraffe Nile may be allowed to 
pass ; but the line must be drawn some- 
where, otherwise we shall have as many 
Niles as there are streams running into 
the Nyanza lakes. This " Alexandra 
Nile " was crossed by Speke and Grant 
when they were journeying round Lake 
Victoria, and they call it the Kitangule; 
but it did not seem to strike them as a 
very important though a noticeable river. 
Mr. Stanley does not appear even to have 
reached this new lake ; and it is from 
native information and " the lie of the 
country " that he sets it down in his rough 
map, which was received in this country a 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



39 



few weeks ago, as about forty miles long 
and thirty in breadth. This is far too 
sensational geo^aphy, and the name of 
the Kitangule nver and lake had better 
be retained, after the example of the first 
discoverers of the river. 

It was expected that, after his examina- 
tion of the above-mentioned lake, Mr. 
Stanley, who was at Mtesa*s in 1875, 
would have taken his boat over to the 
Albert Nyanza and explored that partially 
unknown lake. This was clearly the most 
interesting field of exploration before him, 
and it was even said that he was going to 
push his perilous way from that latterlake 
into the unknown regions lying to the 
west of it, to determine the course of the 
Congo, and to emerge triumphantly at the 
west coast. Instead of doing so, however, 
Mr. Stanley, for reasons which do not 
appear, returned to his old friend, Lake 
Tanganyika, which he had already par- 
tially navigated in company with Dr. Liv- 
ingstone, and which is alreadv better 
known to us than any of the other great 
African lakes, thanks to the explorations 
of Burton and Speke, Livingstone and 
Commander Cameron. Here the bold 
navigator, from his letters just received, 
claims to have made another great dis- 
covery, and one even more wonderful than 
that of Lake Alexandra ; but we shall deal 
with that in connection with Commander 
Cameron's discoveries. 

Leaving Mr. Stanley to continue his 
travels, and just noticmg the ascent, in 
1871, by the Rev. Mr. New of the Mombas 
Mission, of the great mountain Kilimand- 
jaro, which had before been reached 
(though not ascended to the snow-line) by 
Baron von der Dccken, we now come to 
the last great African exploration — that 
of Commander Cameron. This great 
journey has been fully described in 
Cameron's work which has just been pub- 
lished, entitled " Across Africa ; " and, 
alike from the extent, danger, and novelty 
of the journey and the results achieved, it 
gives him a place among the greater Afri- 
can explorers, such as Bruce, Park, Barth, 
Burton, Speke, Grant, and Livingstone. 

The circumstances in which Com- 
mander Cameron started were peculiar, 
and must be in the remembrance of many 
readers. The first Livingstone Search 
Expedition from England was sent out in 
1872 under the command of Lieutenant 
Dawson, and proved a great disappoint- 
ment ; for, ere it had well started from the 
east coast of Africa, Mr. Stanley met it 
with the news that he had already seen 
and relieved Dr. Livingstone ; and owing 



to some misrepresentation of Living- 
stone's wishes, or some misconception of 
them. Lieutenant Dawson withdrew from 
any attempt to carry out the object of the 
expedition, and his example was after- 
wards followed by its succeeding leaders, 
Lieutenant Henn and Mr. New. This 
was extremely unfortunate and provoking, 
because Dr. Livingstone continued to be 
in need of aid, as his failing health, and 
his death soon after, abundantly proved ; 
and because the expedition had been 
fitted out in a very thorough manner at 
great expense. To repair this fiasco a 
second expedition was despatched from 
London in the end of 1872, under Lieuten- 
ant Cameron of the Royal Navy, who was 
a novice in inland African travel, but who 
had accUmatized himself by three years of 
surveying work on the east coast 01 Africa, 
and had acquired a thorough knowledge 
of the Kisanucli language, which, of all 
the African dialects, is the most useful to 
the traveller moving to the centre of the 
continent from the east coast, and which 
Livingstone had found of essential service 
almost wherever he went. Cameron was 
accompanied from the outset by an old 
friend. Dr. W. E. Dillon, R. N. ; and he 
was afterwards joined, as volunteers, by 
Lieutenant Murphy, R. N., and Mr. Rob- 
ert Moffat, a nephew of Livingstone, who 
had sold ofif his inheritance in Natal, and 
intended to devote all he possessed to the 
assistance of his great relative. 

Starting from Bagomayo, opposite Zan- 
zibar, on the usual route for Lake Tan- 
ganyika, this expedition met with even 
more than the usual difficulties and cli- 
matic dangers, and soon was deprived of 
three out of its four Englishmen. Poor 
Moffat died of fever close to the coast, 
almost at the same time as his uncle ex- 
pired by Lake Bangweolo. The expenses 
of the route were found to have so greatly 
increased beyond what they were when 
Burton and Speke first traversed it, that 
Cameron could get only twenty natives for 
a doti where Burton got sixty-four. Lieu- 
tenant Cameron had the advantage of hav- 
ing with him the experienced " Bombay," 
a Seedy who had been in responsible posi- 
tions on all the three preceding expedi- 
tions into the lake region from the east 
coast ; but we are sorry to observe that 
this distinguished traveller had not im- 
proved with years and renown. Burton 
had given him the highest character for 
honesty, even saying in his sardonic way, 
of a distinguished British officer and con- 
sul, that " Bombay's honest black face ap- 
peared beautiful oy comparison.'* Speke 



40 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL, 



and Grant found him very useful on their 
great journey, and bestowed on him high 
praise, though they also pointed out his 
defects; but Stanley suffered some loss 
from relying on his trustworthiness, and 
Cameroi^ found him all but useless, and 
was much provoked by his indifference 
and insolence. Something of the same 
falling off is often visible in Alpine guides, 
English butlers, and many other classes 
of people who are not negroes ; nor is it 
only in Africa that the ndt unreasonable 
idea prevails that when a man becomes 
unfit for the work which has gained his 
reputation, his experience and past labors 
should elevate him into an easier position. 

On reaching his first great stage in 
Unyanyembe, about four hundred and 
fifty miles from the coast, Lieutenant 
Cameron was most kindly received by 
Said ibn Salim, the governor of the Arab 
settlement, who had accompanied Burton, 
and Speke and Grant, on a portion of 
their journeys, and who, we are glad to 
learn, " cherished an affectionate memory 
for his former masters, and was very kind 
to us for their sakes ; not only lending the 
house, but giving us a supply of milk 
morning and evening, and constantly send- 
ing presents of fowls, eggs, and goats." I n 
this unhealthy place they were detained 
for several months, owing to the difficulty 
of obtaining porters, and from the direct 
route to Ujiji being closed by Mirambo, 
a native chief, who had formerly been a 
great friend of the Arab traders, and had 
shown much generosity in giving them 
credit when in difficulties, but had been 
turned into a bitter enemy by their repudia- 
tion of their engagements. Commander 
Cameron writes of this chief as if he were 
a new phenomenon; but Mr. Stanley 
had before described the position of Mi- 
rambo, and the unsettled state into which 
he had thrown the country. By aiding 
the Arabs in fighting Mirambo, Stanley 
committed a great and uncalled-for mis- 
take. It identified white travellers with 
Arab crimes. The Arabs, or half-castes, 
whom he joined for this purpose, deserted 
him at a critical moment, occasioned the 
death of some of his people, and nearly 
caused him to lose his own life. 

The sufferings endured by all the mem- 
bers of the expedition in this region show 
that previous accounts of the effects of its 
fever were not at all exaggerated ; and 
they had also the misery of being nearly 
blinded by ophthalmia. When in this 
wretched condition, a letter arrived from 
Livingstone's servant, Jacob Wainwright, 
announcing the doctor's death, and that 



he and Chumah and Susi were close at 
hand with the dead body. A few days 
after the body arrived, and it remained to 
be determined what was to be done with 
the expedition. Lieutenant Murphy re- 
signed his position, and announced his 
determination of returning to the east 
coast, on the ground that the work of the 
expedition was coippleted. Dillon was 
desirous to go on ; but he was so ill that 
he also resolved to return. Cameron at 
this time was nearly blind with ophthal- 
mia, almost unable to walk from pains in 
his back ; and fever, which was still hang- 
ing about him, had reduced him to a skel- 
eton, and to a weight little over seven 
stone. Nevertheless, in these desperate 
circumstances, he determined to go on, in 
order to secure a box of books which Liv- 
ingstone had left at Ujiji and had re- 
ferred to anxiously with his dying breath, 
and also to follow up the great traveller's 
explorations. It was a heroic determina- 
tion, and was justified by the splendid 
result. He had a terrible warning imme- 
diately after starting; but even that did 
not deter him. He had only started when 
he learned that Dillon had destroyed him- 
self; and he made the next march in an 
almost unconscious state. Strong must 
have been the internal impulse which 
drove him across Africa. 

For the next two years Cameron was 
alone, so far as Europeans were concerned, 
and for the most part upon entirely new 
ground. On reaching Tanganyika he set 
to work to sail round that mysterious lake, 
and did so round its larger half — that is 
to say, from Ujiji, on its east coast and on 
the fifth parallel of south latitude, to the 
southern end of the lake, and up the west 
coast to a point not far from opposite 
Ujiji. Burton and Speke had left that 
portion of the lake almost unexamined, 
and Livingstone had gone round the 
greater portion of it, but chiefly by land, 
so that Cameron's was really the first sur- 
vey of the larger part of the lake upon the 
lake itself. 

Of much interesting information which 
Cameron gathered in regard to Tangan- 
yika, we shall only refer to his discovery 
of its outlet. This question as to an out- 
let had caused a great deal of curious sur- 
mise. When Burton and Speke visited 
its northern end they came to the conclu- 
sion that the river Lusize was an affluent, 
but they could not sufficiently determine 
the point ; and afterwards Burton inclined 
to the opinion that it was an effluent, and 
connected Tanganyika with the Nile. 
That idea was disproved by the examlna- 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



41 



tion of the Rusize in 1871 ; but then Liv- 
ingstone found that the streams ran into 
it at the south end also, so that it had no 
connection with Lake Nyanza. No stream, 
it was well known, issued from its eastern 
side, towards the Indian Ocean; and Liv- 
ingstone sought, entirely without success, 
to find any effluent on its western side. 
Hence he inclined tG|, the opinion that 
there must be a subterranean outlet for 
this immense lake, connecting it with the 
Lualaba River and series of lakes, which 
he believed to be the headquarters of the 
Nile, but which there is now scarcely a 
doubt are those of the Congo. It is no 
wonder Livingstone came to this conclu- 
sion about a subterranean outlet; and it 
is still far from improbable that there may 
be such an outlet among its limestone 
rocks, notwithstanding Cameron's discov- 
ery and Mr. Stanley's ingenious but ab- 
surd supposition that Tanganyika is a 
lake which has not yet got filled up. Liv- 
ingstone's objection to the notion that this 
lake has no outlet is, that if such a body 
of deep water were relieved only by evap- 
oration, the deposit of saline matter in it 
would long since have made it a salt lake 
— there being no other instance in the 
world of a large, deep, fresh-water lake 
without an outlet, and there is a great deal 
of saline matter in the country round it. 
Lake Tchad indeed, there is reason to be- 
lieve, has no outlet, and it is fresh water ; 
but then it is not so much a deep-water 
lake as an immense shallow lagoon, held 
within bounds by the surface which it ex- 
poses to evaporation, and kept fresh by 
the absorption of the ground, which is a 
kind of outlet In the extremely salt 
Dead Sea, it is worthy of notice that the 
amount of river-water poured into it is 
extremely small. But whether a subter- 
ranean outlet exists or not, Livingstone 
detected the part of the coast where there 
might be a subterranean exit in Tangan- 
yika. Commander Cameron saw that 
there was a break in the mountains of the 
western shore where such an outlet was 
likely to be, and, from such examination as 
he was able to bestow upon it, came to 
the conclusion that the Lukuga River was 
that outlet. Livingstone had noticed the 
same break, and had suggested that the 
Logumba River, which appears to be the 
same as Cameron's Lukuga, or at least is 
close to it, was an outlet; and he also 
opined that there might be some outlets 
farther north on the same coast. Unfor- 
tunately, Commander Cameron's examina- 
tion of the Lukuga was not an altogether 
conclusive one. This part of the coast 



was between, and som^ distance from, the 
great trade-routes to the west, so that the 
Arabs knew nothing about it or about the 
river. A local chief declared that his peo- 
ple often travelled for more than a month 
along its banks until it fell into the Lu- 
alaba; but local chiefs appear to say 
anything on such points. The African 
traveller cannot always pursue the exact 
path he wishes, though he may continue 
in the direction, and Cameron was pre- 
vented from descending (or ascending) 
this river; but he went four or five miles 
into it, until progress was rendered impos- 
sible by dense masses of floating vegeta- 
tion. There was neither open water nor 
solid land; but he found in this large 
river, six hundred yards broad and three 
fathoms deep, an outward current from 
the lake of one knot and a half, sufficient 
to drive his boat well into the edge of the 
vegetation ; and on various points of his 
journey afterwards, he obtained corrobora- 
tive evidence that this Lukuga River flows 
into the Lualaba. 

So far everything seems quite clear and 
satisfactory; but Mr. Stanley suddenly 
appears at this outlet, laboring under the 
painful burden that something new and 
extraordinary must be found to justify his 
wandering aoout in Africa for years with 
unlimited funds. His discovery is, that 
Lake Tanganyika has not yet been filled 
up, that it IS a young and rising lake, and 
that Cameron "was both right and 
wrong," — tlTe Lukuga is not an outlet of 
the lake, but it is going to be, when Tan- 
ganyika has risen up to the height of its 
great destiny. We must give Mr. Stanley 
credit for his ingenuity in this matter, and 
all the more that it will be exceedingly 
difficult to prove that he is not right in his 
wonderful supposition. However satis- 
factorily it may be proved afterwards that 
Tanganyika has an outlet in the Lukuga, 
it will still remain open for Mr. Stanley to 
assert that it had no such outlet up to the 
period of his great discovery ; and really 
there is some reason for being thankful 
that so ingenious a mind should have been 
relegated to the (comparatively) uninter- 
esting and innocuous region of African 
geography. It is alarming to contemplate 
what might have been the results had it 
been let loose on the more practically im- 
portant affairs of European or American 
politics ! 

But, to look at the matter scientifically, 
there are many reasons for supposing that 
Commander Cameron is right in regard to 
this subject. We should much more read- 
ily trust the observations and judgment of 



/ 



42 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



a practical and scientific sailor in regard 
to whether the Liikuea is an affluent or an 
effluent, than those of a wandering Ameri- 
can reporter. The supposition that Lake 
Tanganyika has not yet filled up to its 
level is wholly incompatible with our 
knowledge of that lake and of the geology 
of Central Africa. Had its basin been a 
creation of ix)st-tertiary times, it might 

Sossibly (though by no means probably) 
e now in process of being filled up to the 
brim. But Tanganyika dates far back in 
the geological ages — to a period repre- 
sented not by hundreds of thousands but 
millions, and perhaps hundreds of millions, 
of years. The rainfall upon it is itself 
enormous. Besides the rainfall, there are 
the rivers which run into it, and of these 
Cameron says ("Across Africa,** ii. 304), 
" I found no less than ninety-six rivers^ 
besides torrents and springs, flowing into 
the portion of the lake. which I surveyed." 
The drainage of an immense rainy area 
flows into Tan^nyika, and the country 
round it "was like a huge sponge full of 
water." Commander Cameron further 
came to the conclusion that this lake was 
"fed by springs in its bed in addition to 
the numerous rivers and torrents.*' Con- 
sidering these facts, it is extremely diffi- 
cult to oelieve that Tanganyika is a lake 
in process of being filled up. The enor- 
mous rainfall and flow of streams into it 
could hardly be arrested to any extent by 
evaporation under skies so often cloudy, 
and would serve to fill up the basin in a 
few centuries. It is hardly credible that 
such excellent geologists as Livingstone 
and Burton could have examined the 
shores of Tanganyika without perceiving 
traces of its chasm having been recently 
formed if such had been the case. Sir 
Samuel Baker says (" Albert Nyanza,** ii. 
317) that Central Africa is composed of 
granitic and sandstone rocks, which do not 
appear to have been submerged, or to have 
undergone any volcanic or nqueous 
changes, and have been affected only by 
time "working through countless ages, 
. . . no geological change having occurred 
in ages long anterior to man.'* One of 
the greatest of geologists. Sir Roderick 
Murchison, said, in his address to the 
Royal (Geographical Society of the 23d 
May 1864, — 

In former addresses I suggested that the 
interior mass and central portions of Africa, 
constituting a great ))lateau« occupied by lakes 
and marshes, from which the waters escaped 
by cracks or depressions in the subtending 
older rocks, had been in that position during 
an enormously long period. 1 have recently 



been enabled, through the apposite discovery 
of Dr. Kirk, the companion of Livingstone, 
not only to fortify my conjecture of 1852, but 
greatly to extend the inferences concerning 
the long period of time during which the cen- 
tral parts of Africa have remained in their 
present condition. 

One of the chief grounds for this con- 
clusion is the absence of all eruptive rocks 
which could have bfeen thrown up since the 
tertiary rocks began to form. 

Had Mr. Stanley taken these consider- 
ations into account, or had he possessed 
more knowledge of science, he would 
probably have never brought forward his 
fanciful hypothesis. What seems to have 
misled him was the fact that the volume of 
water in Tanganyika has been increasing 
of late years. This had been observed by 
both Livingstone and Cameron ; but they 
had too much knowledge and judgment 
to jump to the conclusion that Tanganyika 
was a lake not yet filled up. The inhabi- 
tants on its shores date this increase 
from after the visits of white men, and 
ascribe it to these visits. There is also 
evidence that Tanganyika has been before 
at a much higher level. In brief, its level 
alters considerably, and the cause is not 
far to seek. Subterranean passages 
(sometimes blocked up by falling pieces of 
rock) may have something to do with it ; 
but another cause is much more apparent. 
The vast masses of floating vegetation 
which there are in this, as in other Central 
African lakes, are quite sufficient to choke 
up the outlets either periodically or for 
long irregular seasons.* 

Unable, from various circumstances, to 
trace down the Lukuga River, Commander 
Cameron moved westward from Tangan- 
yika to Nyangwe, on the Lualaba River, the 
farthest point which Livingstone had 
reached in his last great explorations. 
His desire was to float down this river to 
the Congo as it is already known to us, 
and so emerge on the west coast of Africa, 
but scarcity of means and local difficulties 
prevented him from carrying out this de- 
sign. The disappointment was exceed- 
ingly great to our traveller ; and it is so to 
his readers also ; because before him, and 
almost inviting his footsteps, lay the im- 
mense unknown regions lying between 
Nyangwe and the western sea, includ- 
ing the mysterious Lake Sankorra and 

* Colonel Long says of Lake Ibrahim, "The almost 
tranquil lake is only relieved of its heavy pressure of 
water when the vegetable matter dccav^ is annually 
loosened, and bearing upon its bosom the Pistut stra^ 
tioteSf and detached islands of papyrus, rushes down 
and past Karuma Falls into the Lake Albert, and 
thence to the north.*' 



TWENTY YEARS OF AFRICAN TRAVEL. 



43 



the great valley of the Congo. There 
was no help for it; but the interest of 
the journey which Cameron might l^ave 
achieved, had circumstances been more 
favorable, detracts from the interest of 
that which it remained for him to achieve, 
and where he had to descend so far to the 
south as to cross the previous lines of ex- 
ploration. 

Nyangwe had been' visited before by 
Livingstone; and from thence Cameron 
had to strike almost directly south to Lake 
Kassali, between the eighth and ninth par- 
allels of south latitude. All this was en- 
tirely new ground ; but, having after this 
to strike still further south, tnough now 
also in a westerly direction, he crossed the 
line of exploration of Dr. Lacerda in 
1798, and of Livingstone's early journey 
across Africa. Lacerda went up from the 
east coast as far as Kabebe, a place about 
S. lat. 8^, and long. 23**, and lying between 
Cameron's route and the great valley of 
the Congo and the Lake Sankorra. Liv- 
ingstone, again, in his journeys of 1855-56, 
crossed Cameron's route at Katema about 
12*^ 30m. S. lat., and 21*^ long., and went as 
far north as Kabango, about nine degrees 
south of the equator. We also notice that 
in 1796 Pereira reached a point on the 
twelfth degree of south latitude, and the 
twenty-fourth of east longitude. Hence, 
as an exploration, Cameron's journey is 
not so new as some might think ; but still, 
from Nyangwe it was over almost entirely 
new ground, though crossed at points by 
Livingstone's and Lacerda's routes. His 
laborious determination of positions by 
astronomical observations has been of im- 
mense service to our knowledge of Africa. 
He has also determined the heights along 
his route, so as to be able to present in his 
map a most interesting section of the 
country, displaying at a glance the eleva- 
tions from sea to sea. He has exposed 
the villanies of the slave-trade, still carried 
on by negroid Portuguese; and he man- 
aged so well with the natives as to open, 
not shut, the way for future travellers. 
And though the literary excellences of his 
narrative are not of a very striking charac- 
ter, yet they are charming in their way, 
the details oeing very clearly presented, 
and there being throughout an unobtrusive 
tinge of humor and almost poetic feeling. 

VVe have now indicated the great explo- 
rations which have penetratea and lit up 
the darkness of the African continent. 
A very fair general idea has been obtained 
of what that continent is, of what it is 
capable of being made, and of the people 



by whom it is occupied at present. The 
most important facts which all this discov- 
ery has brought to light are the existence 
in Central Africa of great lakes and great 
navigable rivers, and innumerable smaller 
rivers, many of which are also navigable — 
the existence of a fertile soil and of an ele- 
vated region, with, in many parts, a tem- 
perate climate. These facts obviously 
point out the existence of a vast region in 
Central Africa where, by means of the in- 
troduction and judicious employment of 
the members of the more civilized races of 
the world, there may be a new field for the 
development of humanity. As to the peo- 
ple of these regions, much is to be hoped 
for. It is quite clear, from the accounts 
of all the great travellers, that the more we 
get away from the miasmatic swamps of 
the coast-lands, and from the absolutely 
ruinous effects of slave-hunting — whether 
Arab, Portuguese, or Egyptian — the more 
do we find a half-savage, but also half-civ- 
ilized, people, with many fine and attractive 
qualities. The truth seems to lie between 
Dr. Livingstone's extreme affection for 
them, and Colonel Long's horror of their 
naked deformities. It seems clear that in 
the African (speaking generally) there are 
qualities of much promise. He has a 
larger, more exuberant physique than any 
other of the savage or semi-civilized races. 
His inconsequence and fancifulness are 
those of the undeveloped human being, 
and are not stereotyped in his nature as in 
that of the ordinary Hindu. If we take 
his stage of development into account, we 
find a remarkable amount of common 
sense. In this respect he approaches the 
Chinaman ; but he has more affection and 
sentiment. He has not that hardness of 
nature which gives such a metallic sound 
to the Chinese voice, and that square- 
skulled immobility which prevents the 
Chinaman, even under the most favorable 
circumstances, from amalgamating with 
other races, or departing from the lines of 
his own stereotyped civilization. There 
is good hope that the African may improve 
vastly under more favorable circumstances 
than those in which, hitherto, he has been 
imbedded. 

The history of that dark continent, so 
far as known to us, presents an awful ret- 
rospect, and one all the more dreadful 
when we take into account the kindly and 
affectionate qualities of so many of its 
primitive people, to which Mungo Park, 
Livingstone, Grant, Schweinfurth, and 
Cameron have borne witness. It is inex- 
pressibly sad to think of the unnumbered 



44 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



ages thiougb which these poor dark sav- 
ages have continued, scarcely advancing 
beyond the elements of art and science 
and even of language : from within, de- 
stroying and devouring one another, will- 
ingly offering their throats to the knives 
of sorcerers, or paving the deep grave-pit 
of some bloody monarch with the living 
trembling bodies of a hundred of his young 
wives ; from without, hunted down and 
destroyed or captured by aid of the weap- 
ons of civilization, until every man's hand 
is turned against his brother, and terror 
reigns over vast regions. The bounty of 
nature has provided for them such abun- 
dance that they continue to exist despite 
all the cruel conditions of that existence. 
But they are arrested at a position, not so 
much between heaven and earth, as be- 
tween earth and hell. There is an old 
touch, a tertiary or pre-tertiary touch about 
them, affiliating them with the ancient hip- 
popotamus and the crocodile ; but there 
is also a touch of a sensitiveness and of an 
affection as keen as any ti which the more 
civilized races have attained. This has 
exposed them to a torture which the croc- 
odile and the hippopotamus do not know; 
but it has been insufficient to elevate them 
to a platform of order and happiness. 
Surely here is a case where the introduc- 
tion of European civilization would be 
most justifiable, and might well repay the 
cost. But if that is to be done at all, it 
should be done effectually, — not as in In- 
dia, to the great loss of tne agents of civil- 
ization, and in the fostering of a weak 
native conceit, in itself incapable of devel- 
oping or even retaining the benefits which 
have been conferred upon the country, — 
not as in America, to the extermination of 
the aborigines. In the interests of En- 
gland, the African continent might be 
made really to correct the balance of the 
Old Worlcl, and enable us to keep in front 
of such expanding nations as Germany 
and Russia. Then, perhaps, it might be 
given us, in the evening of our days, to 
wander meditatively on the shore of Tan- 
ganyika, that mighty Ulleswater of Africa, 
or of Lake Nyassa, its softer Windermere. 
It does not seem at all likely at present 
that England will undertake such a work, 
but Germany has of late displayed some 
distinct symptoms of being inclined to do 
so. But however that may be, it is to En- 
glishmen belongs the glory of having first 
penetrated into the centre of tropical Af- 
rica, and of having achieved there a series 
of grand individual explorations which has 
no parallel in the history of the human 
race. 



From The Examiner. 
GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 

BY WILLIAM BLACK. 

AUTHOR OP " THB ADVBNTURBS OF A PHABTON," '* TKB 
PRINCESS OF THULB," ETC 

CHAPTER XXL 

(continued,) 

What the result of this mission of 
theirs was need not be stated at present 
Enough that Balfour and his wife, having 
spent the best part of the afternoon with 
these neighboring friends of theirs, went 
home to dine by themselves in the even- 
ing. And Balfour had been looking for- 
ward during this past fortnight to the de- 
light of having his wife all to himself 
again ; and he had pictured the still little 
room, her seated at the piano, perhaps, or 
perhaps both seated at the fire, and all 
troubles and annoyances hunted out into 
the cold winter night. This was the new 
plan. When he looked at her — at the 
true, sweet, serious, trusting eyes, and at 
the calm, pensive, guileless forehead — he 
began to wonder how he could ever, in his 
selfish imaginations, have thought of hav- 
ing her become a sort of appanage of him- 
self in his public life. Would he wish her 
to become a shifting and dexterous wire- 
puller, paying court to this man, flattering 
another, patronizing a third, all to further 
her husband's interests? That, at all 
events, was not what he wished her to be 
now. He admired her for her courageous 
protest against that suggested scheme for 
the bribing of Englebury. Not for a hun- 
dred seats in Parliament would he have 
his wife make interested professions of 
friendship for such people as the Chorleys. 
The proper place for the high-souled 
young matron was the head of her own 
table, or a seat by the fire in her own 
drawing-room ; and it was there that he 
hoped to gain rest, and sweet encourage- 
ment, and a happy forgetfulness of all the 
vulgar strife of the outside world. 

" Sylvia," he said, suddenly, at dinner, 
"why do you look so depressed? What 
is the matter with you ? '* 

"Oh, nothing," she said, rousing her- 
self, and making an effort — not very suc- 
cessful — to talk about this American trip. 
Then she relapsed into silence again ; and 
the dinner was not a cheerful feast. 

" Are you tired ? " he asked again. 
" Perhaps you had better go and lie down 
for a while." 

No, she was not tired. Nor did she go, 
as was her wont after dinner, into the next 
room and begin to play a few of the airs 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



45 



and pieces that he liked. She sat down by 
the fire, opposite hira. Her face was 
troubled ; and her eyes distant and sad. 

"Come, Sylvia," he said, as he lit his 
pipe, ** you are vexed about something. 
What is it ? What is the trouble ? " 

*• I am not vexed, really. It is no mat- 
ter," she again answered. 

Well, as his motto was " Live, and let 
live," he was not bound to goad her into 
confidences she was unwilling to make ; 
and as the enforced silence of the room 
was a rather painful and lugubrious busi- 
ness, he thought he might as well have a 
look at one or two of the papers he had 
brought down. He went and fetched his 
bae. He sat down with his back to the 
light ; and was soon deep in some report 
as to the water supply of London. 

Happening to look up, however, he 
found that his wife was silently crying. 
Then he impatiently threw the book on 
the table, and demanded to know the 
cause. Perhaps there was some rough- 
ness in his voice ; but, at all •events, she 
suddenly flung herself down before him, 
buried her face in his knees, and burst 
into a fit of wild sobbing, in which she 
made her stammering confession. It was 
all about her father. She could not bear 
to see him sufiEering this terrible anxiety. 
It was killing him. She was sure the man 
who had come down in the train had some- 
thing to do with these pecuniary troubles, 
and It was dreadful to her to think that she 
and her husband had all they could desire, 
while her father was driven to despair. 
All this and more she sobbed out like a 
penitent child. 

Balfour put his hand gcndy on her soft 
brown hair. 

« Is that all, Sylvia ? " he said. " If it 
is only money your father wants, he can 
have that. 1 will ask him." 

She rose — her eyes still streaming with 
tears — and kissed him twice. And then 
she grew gayer in spirit, and went and 
played some music for him, while he 
smoked his pipe. But as he smoked, he 
thought; and his thoughts were rather bit- 
ter about a man who, wanting money, had 
not the courage to ask for it, but had de- 
graded his daughter into the position of 
being a beggar for it. And as Mr. Balfour 
was a business-like person, though he had 
not been trained up to commerce, he de- 
termined to ascertain exactly how Lord 
Willowby*s affairs stood, before proffering 
him this promised help. 



CHAPTER xxn. 

FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS. 



There was a brisk fire burning in the 
breakfast-room at the Lilacs; and the 
frosty December sunlight, streaming 
through the window, touched the white 
table-cloth with a ruddy and cheerful glow. 
A man of about thirty, tall, stalwart-look- 
ing, with a huge brown moustache, and a 
partially cropped beard, light-blue eyes, 
and a healthy complexion, stood on the 
hearthrug, with his hands complacently 
fixed in his pocket. This was Count — or 
rather, as he had dropped his' courtesy 
tide since settling down in England, Mr. 

— Von Rosen, who had served as lieuten- 
ant in the Franco-German war, and had 
subsequently fallen in love with, and mar- 
ried, a young English ladv, who had per- 
suaded him to make England his home. 
He was a young man of superfluous 
energy, of great good humor, and good 
spirits, who made himself a nuisance to 
the neighborhood in which he lived by the 
fashion in which He insisted on other peo- 
ple joining him in his industrious idleness. 
For example, he had on this very morn- 
ing, at seven o'clock, sent a letter to Mr. 
Hugh Balfour, of whose arrival at the 
Lilacs he had only heard on the previous 
night, urging him to join a certain shoot- 
ing party. Ladv Sylvia was to drive over 
with them ; and spend the day with two 
ladies whom she knew. He himself would 
call at nine. And so he stood here, with 
his hands in his pocket, apparently quite 
contented, but nevertheless wondering 
why English people should be so late with 
their breakfast. 

" Ah," said he, with his face brighten- 
ing, as Balfour entered the room. " You 
are ready to go ? But I have to beg your 
pardon very much — mv man says you 
were not awake when he Drought the letter 

— it was stupid of him to send it to your 
room " 

" On the contrary," said Balfour — as 
he mechanically took up a handful of letters 
that were lying on the table — "I have to 
beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. 
I thought I would put on my shooting- 
boots before coming down. Lady Sylvia 
will be here presently ; come, what do you 
say to having some breakfast with us ? " 

He was scanning the outside of the 
various envelopes with something of an 
absent air. There was nothing medita- 
tive about the German ex-lieutenant. He 
had once or twice allowed ^his highly prac- 
tical gaze to fall on a certain game-pie. 

" A second breakfast ? " said he. " Yes, 



4^ 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



perhaps it is better. My first breakfast j 
was at six. And in these short days, it is 
foohshness to waste time at the luncheon. 
Oh yes, I will have some breakfast. And 
in tlie mean ti;ne why do you not read 
your letters ? " 

"Well, the fact is," said Balfour, "my 
wife thinks I should have a clear holiday 
down here; and I have been wondering 
whether it is any use " 

But quite mechanically, while he was 
speaking, he had opened one of the letters, 
and he paused in his speech as he read its 
contents. 

" By Jove," said he, partly to himself 
and partly to his companion, "they must 
be pretty certain that I shall be in the 
next Parliament, or thev would not offer 
to put this in my hands. Perhaps they 
don't know that I am sure to be kicked 
out of Ballinascroon." 

At this moment Lady Sylvia entered the 
room ; and that young lady went up to the 
German lieutenant in the most winning 
and gracious way, for he was a great friend 
of hers, and thanked him very prettily for 
the trouble he had taken about this invita- 
tion. 

" Trouble ? " he said, with a laugh. 
" No, no. It is a good drive over to Mr. 
Lefevre's, and I shall have nice company. 
And you will find him such a fine fellow 

— such a good, fine fellow, if you will 
meet him some night at our house, Lady 
Sylvia ; and your husband will see, when 
we begin the shooting, that there is no 
selfishness in him at all — he will prefer 
that his friends have more shooting than 
himself, and his keepers they know that 
too — and my wife, she says it you will be 
so good as to stay with her all the day, we 
will come back tnat way in the afternoon 

— and it is better still, a great deal better, 
if you and Mr. Balfour will stay to dine 
witn us." 

Lady Sylvia was very pleased and grate- 
ful. Apart from her personal liking for 
these friends of hers, sqe was glad to find 
her husband taking to the amusements 
and interests of this country life. She 
said that Mr. Von Rosen's p(an would be 
very agreeable to her if it suited her hus- 
band; and then she turned to him. He 
was still reo;arding that letter. 

" What do you say, Hugh ? " she asked. 

" Oh, yes," he answered, as if startled 
out of some reverie. " That is very kind 
of you. Von Rosen. It would be a de- 
lightful day. The fact is, however, I am 
not quite sure that I ought to go, though 
nothing would give me greater pleasure, 
as I have just got an offer here that is 



rather flattering to a young member who 
has not done much work in the House — 
it is rather an important measure they pro- 
pose to put into my hands — well, 1 sup- 
pose I shall only be a sort of junior 

counsel to Lord , but at least I could 

get up his case for him. Well, now, I must 
see these two men at once. Sylvia," he 
continued, turning to his wife, " if I asked 
these two friends of mine to run down 
here to-morrow to dinner, I suppose you 
could put them up for the night ? " 

All the glad light had gone from her 
face. They had sat down at the table by 
this time; and before answering him she 
asked Mr. Von Rosen whether he would 
not help himself to something or other 
that was near him. Then she said, in a 
somewhat precise fashion, — 

" I think it would look rather singular 
to ask two strangers down here for a sin- 
gle night at the present time." 

" Why singular ? " said he, with a stare. 

" So near Christmas," she continued, 
in the samef proud and cold way, " people 
are supposed to have made up their fam- 
ily parties. It is scarcely a time to invite 
strangers." 

"Oh, well," said he, with a good-na- 
tured laugh, " I did not mean to offend 
you. I dare say you are right ; an even- 
mg devoted to talking about this bill 
would not have been lively for you. How- 
ever, I must see my two patrons — and 
that at once ; Von Rosen, would you mind 
saying to Mr. Lefevre how much I thank 
him for his friendly offer ? I fear I must 
let you have your cfrive over by yourself." 

It was by the merest accident that he 
happened to notice his wife's face. When 
he saw the look of pain and disappoint- 
ment that passed over it, he did not quite 
know what he had done to produce that 
feeling, but he altered his determination in 
a second. 

" By the way," said he, ** I might as 
well go up to London to-morrow. Yes ; 
that will be better. I will telegraph to 
them to dine with me at the club ; and to- 
day I can give up to your first-rate little 
arrangement. Come, Von Rosen, you 
have not finished already ? " 

" I do not wish to waste time," said 
that inveterate idler. " The daylight is 
very short now. You have finished^ too ? " 

And so they set out; Lady Sylvia hav- 
ing promised to go over to Mrs. Von Ro- 
sen during the day, and remain until the 
evening. As they drove off in the doe- 
cart, Balfour seemed rather preoccupied. 
When he remarked, " Things have come 
to a bonny cripus ! " what was his com- 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



47 



panion to make of that absurd phrase? 
Von Rosen did not know the story of the 
small boy in northern parts who was found 
bitterly sobbing, and aigging his knuckles 
into his eyes ; and who, on being asked 
what was the matter, replied, in language 
which has to be softenea for southern ears, 
"Things have come to a bonny cripus; 
I only called my father an old fool, and he 
went and kicked me behind." It was the 
introductory phrase of this insulted boy 
that Balfour used. "Things have come 
to a bonny cripus," said he. 

They drove along the crisp and crack- 
ling road. The hoarfrost on the hedges 
was beginning to melt ; the sunlight had 
draped the bare twigs in a million of rain- 
bow jewels. The copper-colored sun 
shone over the black woods and the dank 
green fields. 

"Women are strange creatures," said 
Balfour again ; and this was a more intel- 
ligible remark. 

"Whv do you say that?" asked the 
simple lieutenant, who had noticed noth- 
ing at breakfast beyond the coffee and the 
game-pie. 

" I do believe," said Balfour, with a 
smile which was not altogether a glad one, 
"that my wife is beginning posftively to 
hat^ everybody and everj-thing connected 
with Parliament and politics ; and that is 
a lively look-out for me. You know I 
can't go on staying down here. And yet 
I shouldn't wonder if, when Parliament 
meets, she refused to go up to London." 

" No, no, no," said the lieutenant, 
*• there you are very wrong. It is not rea- 
sonable — not at all reasonable. She may 
like the country better ; but it is not rea- 
sonable. That is what I tell my wife now 

— she declares she will not go to live in 
America for a year and leave ner children 

— and I say to her, * You will think again 
about that. It is a great trouble that you 
will leave your children — it will be a great 
sorrow for a time ; but what will you think 
of yourself after, if vou do not do what is 
rignt for them? when they grow up, 
when they want money,what will you think 
if you have thrust away all that property — 
and only for a single year's absence ? ' " 

" AncI has your wife proved reasonable ; 
has she consented to go ? " asked Balfour. 

Von Rosen shrugged his shoulders. 

"No — not yet. But I will not argue 
with her. I will leave her to think. Oh, 
you do not know what a woman will do, if 
she thinks it is for the good of her chil- 
dren. At present, it is all * Oh, never, 
never ! Leave my darling little girl, so 
that she won't know me when f come 



back ? Not for all the money in Amer- 
ica ! ' Well, that is natural too, though it 
is foolishness. You would not like to nave 
your wife with too hard a heart. And I 
say to her, * Yes, I will not ask you. We 
are not so very poor that you must suffer 
great pain. If you will give up the Amer- 
ican property, give it up, and no more to 
be said.' But I know. She is reasoning 
with herself now. She will go." 

" Do you think she will," said Balfour, 
thoughtlully. " Do you think she will 
give up so much of her own feeling if she 
thinks it right?" 

" Know ? " said the tall young German, 
with one of his hearty laughs. "Yes, I 
know that very well. Oh, there is no one 
so sensible as my wife — not any one that 
I know anywhere — if you can show her 
what is right. But if you ask me what I 
think of her uncle, that will cause so much 
trouble all for his nonsense, then I think 
he was a most wretched fellow, a most 
wretched and pitiful fellow." . . . 

Here occurred an unintelligible growl, 
whether in German or English phraseol- 
ogy his companion could not say; but 
doubtless the muttered words were not 
polite. Another man would probably have 
given additional force to this expression 
of feeling by twitching at the reins ; but 
Von Rosen never vented his rage on a 
horse. 

They had a capital day's sport, although 
Balfour, who was evidently thinking of 
anything in the world rather than pheas- 
ants, rabbits, and hares, shot very badly 
indeed. Their luncheon was brought to 
them at a farmhouse, the mistress of the 
farm giving them the use of her sacred 
parlor, in which all the curiosities of orna- 
ment and natural history contributed by 
three generations were religiously stored. 
They got back to Von Rosen's house 
about six ; just in time for a cup of tea 
and a chat before dressing for an early 
country dinner. 

Surely, one or two of us who were sit- 
ting round the table that evening must 
have thought, surely these two young peo- 
ple ought to have Seen happy enough, if 
outward circumstances have anything to 
do with content of mind. There was he, 
in the prime of youthful manhood, with 
strength written in every outline of the 
bony frame, and in every lineament of the 
firm, resolute, and sufficiently handsome 
head, rich beyond the possibilities of care, 
and having before him all the hopefulness 
and stimulus of a distinguished public 
career ; she, young, high-born, and beauti- 
ful, with those serious and shy eyes that 



48 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



went straight to the heart of the person 
she addressed and secured her triends 
everywhere, also beyond the reach of sor- 
did cares, and most evidently regarded by 
her husband with all affection and admira- 
tion. What trouble, other than mere im- 
aginary nonsense, could enter into these 
linked lives ? Well, there was present at 
this dinner that Cassandra of married life 
who was mentioned in the first chapter of 
this highly moral and instructive tale ; and 
she woulcl have answered these questions 
quickly enough. She would have assumed 
— for she knew nothing positive about the 
matter — that these two were now begin- 
ning to encounter the bitter disillusioniz- 
ing experience of post-nuptial life. The 
husband was beginning to recognize the 
fact that his wife was not quite the glori- 
ous creature he had imagined her to be ; 
he was looking back with a wistful regret 
to the perfectly false ideal of her he had 
formed before marriage ; while she, having 
dreamed that she was marrying a lover, 
and having woke up to find she had only 
married a husband, was suffering untold 
and secret misery because she found her 
husband's heart transferred from her real 
self to that old ideal picture of herself 
which he had drawn in the dream-like past. 
This was what she would have said. This 
was what she was always preaching to us. 
And we generally found it best in our 
neighborhood to give her Most Gracious 
Majesty her own way ; so that this theory, 
as regarded the conjugal relations of nearly 
everybody we knew, was supposed to be 
strictly accurate. At least, nobody had the 
temerity to question it 

"Lady Sylvia," said this very person, 
"why don't you ever go up to London? 
Mr. Balfour must think he is a bachelor 
again when he is all by himself in Picca- 
dilly." 

" I don't like London much," said Lady 
Sylvia, with great composure. " Besides, 
my husband is chiefly there on business 
matters; and I should only be in the 
way." 

" But you take a great interest in poli- 
tics," observed this monitress, who doubt- 
less considered that she was administering 
some wholesome discipline. 

** My wife may take some interest in 
politics," said Balfour, "but she has no 
great love for politicians. I confess they 
are not picturesque or interesting per- 
sons, as a rule. 1 am afraid their worldly 
wisdom — their callousness — is a trifle 
shocking." 

" Wen, at all events," said our Most 
Gracious Lady, for she was determined 



to put in a little bit of remonstrance, 
though she would gravely have rebuked 
anybody else for daring to do so, "you 
have not much political work to distract 
your attention at present — Parliament 
not sitting, and all that excitement about 
a dissolution having passed away." 

"My dear Mrs. ," said he, with a 

laugh, " now is the worst time of all ; for a 
good many of us don't know whether we 
shall be in the next Parliament, and we 
are trying what we can do to make our 
calling and election sure. It is a disa- 
greeable business; but necessary. To- 
morrow, for example, I am going to town 
to see two gentleman about a bill they 
propose I should introduce ; but I shall 
have to ask them first what is the betting 
about my being able to get into Parliament 
at all. My present constituents have 
proved very ungrateful, after the unfailing 
attention and courtesy I have lavished upon 
them." 

Here the German ex-soldier burst into a 
great roar of laughter, as if there was any- 
thing amusing in a young man's throwing 
contumely on a number of persons who 
had done him the honor of returning him 
to the House of Commons. 

But after all it was not our business at 
this little dinner-party to speculate on the 
hidden griefs that might accompany the 
outward good fortune of these two young 
people. We had more palpable trouble 
near at hand, as was revealed by an odd 
little accident that evening. Our hostess 
had a great affection for tw^o boisterous 
young lads, who were the sons of the 
august little woman just referred to ; and 
she had invited them to come into the din- 
ing-room after dessert. Surely a mother 
ought to teach these brats not to make 
remarks on what does not concern them ? 
Now, as we were talking in an aimless 
fashion about the Ashantee War, the re- 
cent elections and what not, a sudden 
sound outside stilled us into silence. It was 
the children of the church choir who had 
come up to sing us a Christmas carol ; and 
the sound of their voices, outside in the still 
night, recalled many a vivid recollection 
and awoke some strange fancies about the 
coming year. What were most of us 
thinking of then ? This young ass of a 
boy all at once says, " Oh, Auntie Bell, 
where will you be next Christmas ? And 
do they sing Christmas carols far away in 
America?'* And Auntie Bell, being 
taken rather aback, said she did not know, 
and smiled ; but the smile was not a glad 
one, for we knew that sudden tears nad 
I started to the soft and kindly eyes. We 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



49 



were not quite so happy as we went home 
that night. And when some one remarked 
to the mother of those boys — but there, 
it is no use remonstrating with women. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 
A CONFESSION. 

On the morning of his departure for 
London Balfour would take no notice of 
the marked disfavor with which Lady Syl- 
via regarded his setting out. It was hard 
on the poor child, no doubt, that he should 
leave her in the midst of these few Christ- 
mas holidays ; and all for the sake of 
some trumpery Parliamentary business. 
He might have remonstrated with her, it 
is true ; mieht have reminded her that ^he 
knew what his life must be when she mar- 
ried him; might have recalled her own 
professions of extreme interest in public 
affairs ; might have asked her if a single 
days* absence — which he had tried to 
avert by a proposal which she had reject- 
ed — was, after all, such a desperate busi- 
ness. But no. He had no' wish to gain 
an argumentative victory over his beauti- 
ful young wife. He would allow her to 
cherish that consolatory sense of having 
been wronged. Nay more ; since she had 
plainly chosen to live in a world apart from 
his, he would make her life there as happy 
as possible. And so, as he kissed her in 
bidding her good-by, he said, — 

" By the way, Sylvia, I might as well go 
round by the Hall, and see your father. 
If he is m all that trouble — this is Christ- 
mas-time ^'ou know — perhaps he will let 
me help him." 

Well, she did look a little grateful. 

'* And I shall be down as soon as I can 
to-morrow forenoon," he added. 

But as he drove away from the Lilacs 
in the direction of Wilfowby Hall, he did 
not at all feel so amiably disposed towards 
his wife's father ; whom he conjectured — 
and conjectured quite wrongly — to have 
been secretly soliciting this help from 
Lady Sylvia. But at all events, Balfour 
said to himself, the relations between him- 
self and his wife were of more importance 
than his opinion of Lord Willowby. The 
sacrifice of a few thousand pounds was 
not of much concern to him ; it was of 
great concern to him that his wife should 
not remain unhappy if this matter of 
money c6uld restore her usual cheerful- 
ness. 

When he reached the Hall, he found 
that Major and Mrs. Blythe had left the 
day before, but would return for Christ- 
mas. Lord Willowby was smoking an 

UVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 940 



after-breakfast cigarette in the library. 
He looked surprised when Balfour entered ; 
his son-in-law had not often paid him a 
visit unaccompanied by Ladv Sylvia. 

"The fact is," said Balfour, coming 
straight to the point, " Sylvia is rather 
distressed at present because she imn^ines 
you are in some trouble about business 
matters. She thinks I ought to ask you 
about it, and see if I can help you. Well, 
I don't like interfering in any one's aflairs, 
especially when I have not been solicited 
to interfere ; but really, you know, if I can 
be of any service to you " 

"Ah! the good girl — the dear girl!" 
said Lord Willowby, with that effusiveness 
of tone that his daughter had learned to 
love as the only true- expression of affec- 
tion. " I can see it all ! Her tender 
instinct told her who that man was whom 
you drove over the day before yesterday 
— she recognized mv despair, my shame, 
at being so beset by a leech, a blood- 
sucker, a miserable wretch who has no 
more sense of honor " 

And at this point Lord Willowby thought 
fit to get into a hot and indignant rage, 
which in no measure imposed on his son- 
in-law. Balfour waited patiently until the 
outburst was over. Perhaps he may have 
been employing his leisure considering 
how a man could be beset by a leech ; but 
inadvertently he looked out of window 
at his horses, and then he thought of his 
train. 

"And, indeed, Balfour," said his lord- 
ship, altering his tone and appealing in a 
personal and plaintive way to his son-in- 
law, " how could I speak to you about these 
matters.? All your life you have been too 
well off to know anything about the shifts 
that other men have sometimes to adopt." 

" My dear Lord Willowby," said Bal- 
four with a smile, " I am afraid it is those 
very shifts that have led you into your 
present troubles." 

"If you only knew — if you only knew," 
said the other, shaking his head. " But 
there; as my dear girl is anxious, I may 
as well make a clean breast of it. Will 
you sit down ? " 

Balfour sat down ; he was thinking more 
of the train than of his father-in-law's 
affairs. 

" Do you know," said Lord Willowby, 
with something of a pathetic air, " that 
you are about the last man in the world to 
whom I should like to reveal the cause of 
my present anxieties ? You are — you 
will forgive me for saying so — apt to be 
harsh in your judgments ; you do not 
know what temptations poverty puts be- 



50 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY, 



fore you. But my dear girl must plead 
for me." 

Balfour, who did not at all like this ab- 
ject tone, merely waited in mute attention. 
If this revelation was to be protracted, he 
would have to take a later train. 

" About a jrear and a half ago," said his 
lordship, lettmg his eyes rest vaguely on 
the arm of Balfour's easy-chair, " things 
had gone very badly with me, and I was 
easily inducea into joining a speculation, 
or rather a series oi speculations on the 
Stock Exchange, which had been project- 
ed by several friends of mine who had 
been with me in other undertakings. 
They were rich men, and could have 
borne their previous losses ; I was a poor 
man, and — and in short, desperate. More- 
over, they were all business men, one or 
two of them merchants whose names are 
known all over the world; and I had a 
fair right to trust to their prudence — had 
I not?" 

" Prudence is not of much avail in gam- 
bling," said Balfour. " However, how did 
you succeed ? " 

" Our operations, which they conducted, 
mind you, were certainly on a large scale 
— an enormous scale. If tliey had come 
out successfully, I should never have 
touched a company, or a share, or a bond 
for the rest of my life. But instead of 
that, everything went against us ; while 
one or two of us could have borne the 
loss, others of us must have been simply 
ruined. Well, it occurred to one or two 
of these persons — I must beg you to be- 
lieve, Balfour, that the suggestion did not 
come from me — that we might induce our 
broker, by promises of what we should do 
for him afterwards, to assume the respon- 
sibility of these purchases and become 
bankrupt " 

A sudden look of wonder — merely of 
wonder, not yet of indignation — leapt to 
the younger man's face. 

" My dear fellow," pleaded Lord Wil- 
lowby, who had been watching for this 
look, ** don't be too rash in condemning 
us — in condemning me, at all events. I 
assure you I at once opposed this plan 
when it was suggested. But they had a 
great many reasons to advance against 
mine. It was making one man bankrupt 
instead of several. Then on whom would 
the losses fall ? Why, on the jobbers ; 
who are the real gamblers of the Stock 
Exchange, and who can easily suffer a 
few losses when pitted against their enor- 
mous gains " 

" But how was it possible ? " exclaimed 
Balfour, who had not yet recovered from 



his amazement. "Surely the jobbers 
could have appealed to the man's books, 
in which all your names would have been 
found I " 

" I assure you, Balfour," said his lord- 
ship, with a look of earnest sincerity, 
"that so much was I opposed to the 
scheme that I don't know how that diffi- 
culty was avoided. Perhaps he had a 
new set of books prepared, and burned 
the old ones. Perhaps he had from the 
outset been induced to enter his own 
name as the purchaser of the various 
stocks." 

" But that would have been worse and 
worse — a downright conspiracy to swin- 
dle from the very oeginning ! \Vhy, Lord 
Willowby, you don't mean to say that you 
allowed yourself to be associated with such 
a — well, perhaps I had better not give 
it a name ! " 

" My dear Balfour," said his lordship, 
returnmg to his pathetic tone, "it is well 
for you that you have never suffered from 
the temptations of poverty. I feared your 
judgment of my conduct would be harsh. 
You see, you don't think of the extenuat- 
ing circumstances. I knew nothing of 
this plan when I went into the copartner- 
ship of speculation — I cannot even say 
that it existed. Very well : when ray 
partners came to me and showed me a 
scheme that would save them from ruin, 
was I openly to denounce and betray them 
merely because my own conscience did 
not exactly approve of the means they 
were adopting ? " 

"To condone a felony, even with the 
purest and highest motives," said Bal- 
four; and with that Lord Willowby sud- 
denly rose from his chair. That single 
phrase had touched him into reality. 

" Look here, Balfour " said he, 

angrily. 

But the younger man went on with 
great calmness, to explain that he had 
probably been too hasty in using these 
words before hearing the whole story. 
He begged Lord Willowby to regard him, 
Balfour, as one of the public : what would 
the public, knowing nothing of Lord Wil- 
lowby's private character, think of the 
whole transaction? And then he prayed 
to be allowed to know how the affair nad 
ended. 

" 1 wish it was ended," said Lord Wil- 
lowby, subsiding into his chair again, and 
into his customary gloomy expression. 
" This man appears to consider us as 
being quite at his mercy. They have given 
him more money than ever they promised ; 
yet he is not satisfied. He knows quite 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



SI 



well that the jobbers suspected what was 
the cause of his bankruptcy, though they 
could do nothing to him; now he threat- 
ens to disclose the whole business, and 
set them on us. He says he is ruined as 
far as is practicable ; and that if we don't 

five him enough to retire on, and live at 
is ease, he will ruin every one of us in 
public reputation. Now do you see how 
the case stands ? " 

He saw verv clearly. He saw that he 
dared not explain to his wife the story he 
had been told; and he knew she would 
never be satisfied until he had advanced 
money in order to hush up a gigantic 
fraud. What he thought of this dilemma 
can easily be surmised ; what he said 
about it was simply notbing at all. 

"And why should he come at me?" 
said Lord Willowby, in an injured way. 
" I have no money. When he was down 
here the day before yesterday he used the 
plainest threats. But what can I do ? " 

** Prosecute him for attempting to ob- 
tain money by threats." 

" But then the whole story would come 
out." 

" Why not — if you can clear yourself 
of all complicity in the matter?" 

Sure'y this was plain, obvious good 
sense. But Lord Willowby had always 
taken this young man to be a person of 
poor imagination, limited sympathies, and 
cold, practical ways. It was all very well 
for him to think that the case lay in a nut- 
shell. He knew better. He had a senti- 
ment of honor. He would not betray his 
companions. In order to revenge him- 
self on this wretched worm of a blood- 
sucker, would he stoop to become an in- 
former, and damage the fair reputations of 
friends of his who had done their best to 
retrieve his fallen fortunes? 

He did not frankly say all this ; but he 
hinted at something of it. 

" Your generosity," said Balfour, appar- 
ently with no intention of sarcasm, ** may 
be very noble ; but let us see exactly what 
it may lead to. What does this man pro- 
pose to do, if he is not paid sufficient 
money ? " 

" Oh, he threatens everything — to 
bring an action against us — to give the 
jobbers information which will enable 
them to bring an action — and so forth." 

" Then your friends, at ail events, will 
have to pay a large sum ; and both you 
and they will be ruined in character. 
That is so — isn't it ? " ' 

" I don't know about character," said 
this poor hunted creature. " I think I 
could make some defence about that." 



" I don't think your defence would affect 
the public verdict," said this blunt-spoken 
son-in-law. 

" Well, be it so ! " said his lordship in 
desperation. " Let us say that the general 
voice of business-men — who, of course, 
never employ any stratagems to get out of 
predicaments in their own affairs — will 
say that we conspired to commit a fraud. 
Is that plain enough language ? And now 
perhaps you will say that the threat is not 
a sufficiently serious one ? " 

" I will say nothing of the kind," said 
Balfour, quietly. " The whole case seems 
much more serious than any one could 
have imagined. Of course if you believe 
you could clear yourself, I say again, as I 
said before, bring an action against the 
man, and have the whole thing out, who- 
ever suffers. If you are dismclined to 
take that course — — " 

" Well, suppose I am ? " 

" In that case," said Balfour, rising, 
"will you give me a day or two to think 
over the af&ir ? " 

" Certainly ; as many as you like," said 
Lord Willowby, who had never expected 
much from the generosity of this son-in- 
law of his. 

And so Balfour got into his trap again, 
and drove on to the station. Nothing that 
had happened to him since his marriage 
had disturbed him so much as the revela- 
tion of this story. He had always had a 
certain nameless, indefinable dislike to 
Lord Willowby; but he had never sus- 
pected him capable of conduct calculated 
to bring dishonor on the family name. 
And oddly enough, in this emergency, his 
greatest apprehension was that he might 
not be able to conceal the almost inevita- 
ble public scandal from Lady Sylvia. She 
had always loved her father. She had 
believed in his redundant expressions of 
affection. In the event of this great scan- 
dal coming to her ears, would she not 
indignantly repudiate it, and challenge her 
husband to repudiate it also ? 

That evening, by appointment, Balfour's 
two friends dined with him at his club; 
and they had a more or less discursive 
chat over the bill which it was proposed 
he should introduce in the case of his be- 
ing re-seated at the following general elec- 
tion. Strangely enough, he did not enter 
into this talk with any particular zest. He 
seemed abstracted and absorbed ; several 
times he vaguely assented to an opinion 
which he found it necessary to dispute 
directly afterwards. For what the mem- 
ber of Ballinascroon was really saying to 
himself was this : " To-morrow I go down 



52 



GENIUS AND VANITY. 



again to the country. My wife will want 
to know what I am going to do about her 
father's affairs. I shall be thrown a good 
deal during the next few days into the 
society of Lord Willowby and his brother. 
And on Christmas-day I shall have the 
singular felicity of dining in the company 
of two of the most promising scoundrels 
in this country." 



From The Cornhill Masazine. 
GENIUS AND VANITY. 

The critic who aims at the highest tri- 
umph of his art, the revelation to the 
world of unrecognized genius, must often 
feel a disagreeable qualm. May he not be 
puffine a charlatan, instead ot heralding 
the advent of a great man ? The doubt 
is still more perplexing when the genius to 
be proclaimed is his own, and the respon- 
sibility correspondingly greater. And 
hence arises a problem which has often 
occurred to me when reading about two 
eminent men of the last generation. 

Wordsworth and Haydon were friends. 
Each sympathized with the aims of the 
other. Wordsworth wished to reform 
poetry as Haydon wished to reform paint- 
ing. Each ot them endeavored to breathe 
a loftier spirit into the devotees of his 
favorite art. Each of them persevered 
heroically in spite of the most depressing 
reception. The enthusiasm which ani- 
mated Haydon was not less elevated above 
the ends of a commonplace selfishness 
than that which animated Wordsworth. If 
the painter was undeniably vain, the poet 
pushed vanity to the verge of the sublime. 
One, however, failed where the other suc- 
ceeded. Poor Haydon's life-long exer- 
tions were not, one may hope, entirely 
thrown away ; but his most cherished am- 
bition came to naught. He produced no 
work which might entitle the English 
school to rank amongst the great schools 
of the world. Wordsworth, on the con- 
trary, breathed new life even into the rich 
and vigorous growth of English poetry ; 
he set liis mark upon a generation ; and 
enjoyed, before he died, the profound hom- 
age of the best and purest minds of the 
succeeding generation. 

Haydon, then, made a fatal mistake, 
whereas Wordsworth's daring was justi- 
fied by the result. That is clearly a rea- 
son for pity in the one case and congratu- 
lation in the other. But is it a reason — 
as it is certainly a common pretext — for 
pronouncing a diEerent moral judgment 



upon the two men ? Is success to be the 
sole test of virtue in this as in so many 
other cases ? When a hero burns his 
ships, scorns the counsels of cool common 
sense, plucks the flower safety from the 
nettle danger, and ends by winning an 
empire in defiance of all calculation, we 
are ready with our hosannahs. But, if he 
fails, should we therefore stone him? If 
Columbus had met with a little more ad- 
verse weather, his courage would not have 
prevented the failure of his enterprise. 
Had our Arctic voyagers chanced upon a 
better route, they might have reached the 
pole without expending more devotion. 
The hero is the man who dares to run a 
risk ; who is not deterred, because an ele- 
ment of the radically unknowable enters 
into his calculations. If he knew more 
than others he would be a wiser, but not a 
better, man than his fellows. He would 
be playing the great game with loaded dice. 
His insignt, not his daring, would deserve 
our wonder. But he who risks life and 
fame upon an uncertainty deserves equal 
credit, for his intrinsic merit is the same, 
whether the cards turn up for him or 
against him. Our life is little but a wan- 
dering in a trackless desert. We throw 
out exploring parties in every direction. 
Ten die of starvation and misery ; one 
hits upon the right path. Too often we 
praise the man already rewarded by for- 
tune, and attribute his good luck to some 
mysterious power of intuitive judgment. 
But, if we were just, we should bestow 
equal praise and more sympathy upon the 
luckless ones whose steps led them to the 
barren places, and whose failures, it may 
be, served as warning beacons to their 
more favored successors. 

Why not apply this rule to the pioneers 
of intellectual or artistic progress ? Hun- 
dreds of men have wasted lives of ener- 
getic endeavor in following delusive paths 
in that great labyrinth of human knowl- 
edge, where the clue is so hard to find, 
and where at every stage so many paths 
hold out equal promise. We, enlightened 
by slow experience, ^r by wider knowl- 
edge, can see that these wanderings were 
predestined to failure. But why not honor 
equally the high faith wWch scorned 
meaner aims, and was unchilled by the in- 
difference of the vulgar? Is devotion to 
knowledge so common a quality that we 
can afford to despise it • unless it bears 
fruit in appreciable results? We often 
laugh at the poor would-be philosophers 
who waste years in trying to discover per- 
petual motion, or to square the circle. 
They are, we may be sure, grossly igno- 



GENIUS AND VANITY. 



S3 



rant, and, in all likelihood, intolerably ar- 
rogant. They must be ignorant of other 
men's work, or blind to the vast improb- 
ability that they should be right, and all 
the great intellects of the world hopelessly 
wrong. Yet, even in this case, pity as 
much as scorn may be due to the igno- 
rance ; and the arrogance itself is but the 
ugly side or the exaggerated development 
of the quality which, more than any other, 
is necessary for intellectual progress. We 
have never a sufficient supply of original- 
ity and intellectual daring. We always 
need more men able to cast aside the tra- 
ditional spectacles, to see for themselves 
and once more test the dogmas which our 
indolence tempts us to accept with too 
easy a faith. Such courage is good, even 
when misguided. Find men who will 
dare, and all is possible. Let obedience 
to authority be installed as the first intel- 
lectual virtue, and knowledge will be pet- 
rified into Chinese finality. And, if even 
such eccentricity deserves that contempt 
should be tempered with mercy, may we 
not rightfully honor manjr others who 
have thrown away their lives, like poor 
Casaubon in " Middlemarch,'* in labors 
fruitless because accidentally misdirected ? 
It is a great misfortune, but it is not a 
vice, to be an anachronism. 

But what are we to say to that great 
army of martyrs, amongst whom poor 
Haydon is to be reckoned — the epic 
poets, the rivals of Shakespeare, the 
would-be eclipsers of Raphael or Phidias 
— the men whose efforts to sing or to 
paint have supplied the world with moun- 
tains of waste-paper, and spoiled acres of 
good canvas ? One of the most pathetic 
of Balzac's minor stories describes the 
fate of a poor painter, who had labored for 
years at a picture destined to create a new 
era in art. All his hopes in life, his love 
and his ambition, were involved in its suc- 
cess. No one had been admitted to the 
room in which he labored with unremitted 
devotion. At last, the day came when the 
favored person stood before the curtain 
which concealed the masterpiece. The 
painter drew it aside, slowly and solemnly, 
and revealed a meaningless confusion of 
chaotic coloring. The artist's mind was 
of course unhinged ; but his melancholy 
story is a symbol of the fate of many men 
still outside Bedlam. Any one who has 
seen the darker side of the literary and 
artistic worlds can match Balzac's hero 
with numerous instances of similar self- 
delusion. The pictures are not often 
mere blotches of color; the poems fre- 
quently obey, the laws of grammar, and 



even of metre ; but, for all good purposes, 
the artist might as well have thrown his 
brush at the canvas, or the author taken 
his words at random from the dictionary. 
And what should be our feelings ? Con- 
tempt or pity or admiration for the devo- 
tion, combined with compassion for the 
error? Should we honor, say, a Chatter- 
ton who is a martyr to his ambition, be- 
cause the poems unrecognized during his 
lifetime turned out really to have some- 
thing in them (though, after all, not very 
much !) and despise the numerous Chat- 
tertons who have hopelessly failed, be- 
cause there was nothing in them at all ? 
The moral quality was the same. The dif- 
ference was that one man judged his pow- 
ers rightly, whilst the hundreds judge of 
their powers wrongly. But this is an 
error to which almost every man is liable. 
Our . squarers of the circle are silly, be- 
cause they can appeal to a court which is 
practically infallible. A hundred profess- 
ors of mathematics are ready not only to 
tell them that they are wrong, but to ex- 
plain to them how and why they are wrong. 
But the poet can appeal to no such court. 
If he is not appreciated, it may be that he 
is in advance, not in rear of his time. A 
century hence, his work may be winning 
recognition, and his descendants be ridi- 
culing the blindness of their ancestors. 
Why, then, should he not persevere, and 
trust his work to time ? Do we not, in 
any case, owe to him the tribute of admi- 
ration for a devotion, of which it is prema- 
ture to pronounce that it was directed to 
a mistaken object ? 

The easiest answer is that a false esti- 
mate of our own merits is in fact immoral. 
Vanity is weakness which we can all con- 
demn unreservedly, because we all feel 
that we are free from it ourselves, and 
recognize its existence throughout the rest 
of the species. The appointed chastise- 
ment of vanity is ridicule. Therefore we 
are right in laughing at the man who 
thinks himself to be a Milton when he is 
merely a Satan Montgomery. The victim 
may reply that we are begging the ques- 
tion, and that what we call his vanity will 
hereafter be called consciousness of gen- 
ius. And, in truth, the dilemma is in 
one sense insoluble. Critics are fallible ; 
cliques are fallible. The outside public is 
so fallible as to be generally wrong ; no 
literary court is infallible except that to 
which the best minds of all ages are ad- 
mitted as judges, and in which many of our 
most dogmatic utterances would look fool- 
ish enough. Yet we must take our chance. 
Judges must sentence prisoners, though 



S4 



GENIUS AND VANITY, 



now and then they may condemn an inno- 
cent person. Critics must laugh at charla- 
tans, though they may now and then mis- 
take a man of genius for a fool. But 
there is a more fundamental difficulty. 
Granting that a man's confidence in his 
own powers really implies vanity, are we 
therefore justifieci in condemning him ? 
Is vanity a vice at all .•* Is it not in any 
case a vice so universal that none of us 
have a right to cast the first stone ? Nay, 
if we lay aside the conventional attitude of 
mind, in which our little cut-and-dried 
maxims pass for legitimate currency, ought 
we not rather to call vanity a virtue, or at 
lowest a desirable quality r Listen to the 
ordinary moralizing of the pulpit and the 
moral essayist, and we, of course, must 
condemn vanity, .is on the same showing 
we condemn many of the most essential 
qualities by which the world is carried on. 
There is a sense — nobody denies it — in 
which these commonplaces have a sound, 
if a rather obvious, meaning. But all 
maxims that have been much used by 
preachers — lay or clerical — become so 
strained and perverted in the process that, 
like worn-out muskets, they are apt to pro- 
duce very random shooting. Who that 
has looked at the world for himself can 
deny that vanity may be reckoned amongst 
the most enviable of possessions ? It de- 
serves, even more than the original object 
of the panegyric, the praise which Sancho 
bestowed upon sleep. Vanity does indeed 
wrap a man up like a cloak. It bestows 
its blessings freely upon the poet striving 
against general misappreciation ; it enables 
the poor loser in the great battle of life to 
make himself happy with some trifling 
success ; it softens the bitter pangs of 
disappointment and gives fresh strength 
for new struggles ; it prevents resentment 
and facilitates the intercourse of society ; 
it can make any man contented with his 
lot and lets the poor drudge in the kitchen 
think without envy of the statesman in the 
parlor. Who would not be tempted to 
frequent irritation if he could enjoy that 
gift for which the poet so foolishly prayed, 
the gift of seeing himself as others saw 
him, and recognize his infinitesimal im- 

Eortance in the eyes of his fellows? It is 
ecause of the lender illusions of vanity 
that a man can accept the petty sphere of 
his own activity for the wider circle of the 
world, and shut out the annihilating image 
of the vast forces beyond. It is the safe- 
guard against a depressing fatalism. Van- 
ity has as many virtues as the vaunted 
panaceas of medical quackery ; and were 
It not foi* that softening oil, the wheels of 



life would grate harsh music too discordant 
for mortal ears. 

Yet in singing the praises of vanity we 
become aware of a certain vagueness of 
outline about this Protean goddess. She 
can take many shapes ; and changes so 
rapidly and completely that we are unable 
to fix any definite portrait upon our canvas. 
Sometimes there is a scowl upon her feat- 
ures, and sometimes a complacent smile. 
She can pass herself off in the likeness of 
her conventional opposite, humility, or ape 
the gestures of pride, or be undistinguish- 
able from mere sullen egotism. All our 
definitions of the passions have this pro- 
voking vagueness, because, in truth, we 
do not know what are the ultimate ele- 
ments of character. We cannot find 
chemical formulae for human nature, or 
say how many atoms of spiritual oxygen 
or hydrogen must be combined to form a 
definite product. Our efforts at analysis 
bre^k down at every instant. Everv new 
light thrown by new circumstances brings 
out previously unsuspected aspects of be- 
wildering complexity. Every new charac- 
ter seems to require a new category for its 
description. There seem to be as many 
species of men as there are individunls. 
Our complacent little formulae may guide 
our conduct with tolerable accuracy ; but, 
when we confront theory with the infinite 
variety of facts, we recognize the futility of 
any claim to scientific accuracy. We class 
men as good or bad, humble or vain ; and 
when looking at exceptional cases, or deal- 
ing only with large classes and average 
results, our words have a kind of meaning. 
The saint and the sinner. Saint John and 
Judas Iscariot, may be distinguished easily 
enouj^h. But between the extremes we 
may interpose any number of terms, vary- 
ing so strangely, in so many directions, and 
combining so many apparent contradic- 
tions, that our lines of demarcation be- 
come hopelessly blurred and confused. 
Our compartments may be most logically 
subdivided, but no real being will quite fit 
into any one of them. The inferior classes 
multiply on our lands ; they cross, blend, 
overlap and confuse each other till we ad- 
mit them to be useless. We can seldom 
apply a rule to a dozen cases without find- 
ing twelve exceptions. The qualifications 
to our statements become so numerous 
that the statements are practically worth- 
less. The poet can create characters ; the 
man of science cannot define them or as- 
sign their composition. 

Thus the condemnation of vanity col- 
lapses when we try to answer the plain 
question, what is vanity ? Try to define 



GENIUS AND VANITY, 



55 



accurately the various cognate terms, van- 
ity, conceit, pride, egotism, and their nu- 
merous allies, to mark out accurately their 
points of resemblance and contrast, and 
then test your conclusions by appropriate 
examples. Take a few cases at random. 
Here is Miss Martineau, for example, who 
says in her autobiography that all the dis- 
tinguished men of ner time were \'ain — 
and she does not add that the limits of 
time or sex are a necessary part of the 
assertion. But was she not vain herself ? 
No, for she formed a singularly modest and 
sound estimate of her own abilities. But 
again, yes, for she certainly seems to have 
considered that to one person at least Miss 
Martineau was incomparably the most inter- 
esting person in the universe, that coming 
generations would be profoundly interestea 
in the analysis of her character and the 
genesis of her works ; and also that the 
merits of her contemporaries might be ac- 
curately gauged by the extent to which 
they did or did not sympathize with Har- 
riet Martineau. Is not egotism of this 
kind mere vanity disguised by a superficial 
air of impartiality? Take the vanity, 
again, which is revealed so curiouslv in 
the recently published letters of Balzac. 
Here it becomes a force which leads a 
man to reckon himself amongst the four 
greatest heroes of his age and goes far to 
make him what he supposes himself to be. 
It develops a kind of monomania leading 
to utter absorption in his own affairs, in 
his literary ambition, and, above all, in cal- 
culations as to the number of francs into 
which his genius can be coined. Was it 
a strength or a weakness .'* Contrast it 
with the vanity — for many people will call 
it vanity — of his contemporary Doudan. 
Doudan's letters reveal to us a man of that 
admirable fineness of intellect so conspic- 
uous in the best French writers, which 
may be defined as the sublimated essence 
of common sense. But his exqusiite sen- 
sibility was pushed to such a point as to 
destroy liis fertility, and but for his letters 
his name would have been known to his 
fellows only through a passing allusion of 
Ste.-Beuve. Shall we say that Balzac's 
vanity led him to produce the " Comidie 
Humavte^ and Doudan's humility made 
bim produce — nothing.'* Then vanity is 
so far a good and humility a bad thmg. 
Or shall we say that this excessive sensi- 
bility is but vanity disguised? — that a 
man who trembles before criticism thinks 
too much of his own importance? The 
theory is a common one and enables us 
verbally to condemn vanity in all forms ; 
but it implicitly admits, too, that vanity 



may produce diametrically opposite results 
and at times co-operate hand-in-hand with 
humility. 

Infuse vanity into such a man as Gold- 
smith, and it adds a childlike charm to his 
character ; it gives a tinge of delightful 
humor to his writing, and enables his 
friends to love him the more heartily be- 
cause they have a right also to pay tnem- 
selves by a little kindly contempt. Make 
a Byron vain, and half his magniAcent force 
of mind will be wasted by silly efforts to 
attract the notice of his contemporaries by 
attacking their best feelings and affecting 
(a superfluous task !) vices which he does 
not possess. The vanity of a Wordsworth 
enables him to treat with profound disdain 
the sneers of Edinburgh reviewers, and 
the dull indifference of the mass of 
readers; but it encourages him also to 
become a literary sloven, to spoil noble 
thought by grovelling language, and to 
subside into supine obstructiveness. Con- 
versely, the vanity of a Pope makes him 
suffer unspeakable tortures from the 
stings of critics compared to whom Jeffrey 
was a giant, condescend to the meanest 
artifices to catch the applause of his con- 
temporaries, and hunger and thirst for the 
food which Wordsworth rejected with 
contempt. But it also enables him to be- 
come within his own limits the most ex- 
quisite of artists in words ; to increase in 
skill as he increased in years ; and to coin 
phrases for a distant posterity even out of 
the most trifling ebullition of passing spite. 
The vanity of a Milton excites something 
approaching to awe. The vanity of a Con- 
greve excites our rightful contempt. 
Vanity seems to be at once the source of 
the greatest weaknesses, and of the great- 
est achievements. To write a history of 
vanity would be to write the history of the 
greatest men of our race ; for soldiers and 
statesmen have been as vain as poets and 
artists. Chatham was vain ; Wolfe was 
vain ; Nelson was childishly vain ; and 
the great Napoleon was as vain as the 
vainest. Must not our condemnation of 
the quality undergo some modification 
before we can lay it down as an absolute 
principle ? 

If, to set aside some ambiguities, we de- 
clare that man to be vain, who, for whatever 
reason, overestimates his own merit or im- 
portance in the world, we shall naturally 
infer that vanity is so far bad as it implies 
an error. A man is the better for know- 
ing the truth, in this as in all other cases. 
But we may still ask whether the error is 
of such a nature as to deserve moral disap- 
proval. We do not blame a man because 



S6 

be gives the wrong answer to one of those 
problems which have tasked the ingenuity 
of countless thinkers of the highest ability. 
The difficulty of discovering the truth 
about one individual, especially about our 
own individuality, is as great as the diffi- 
culty of discovering the truth about a gen- 
eral problem of philosophy and theology. 
The moralist who, in this latter case, 
admits that sincerity is no guarantee 
against error, orders men to be candid, 
but cannot order them to arrive at right 
conclusions. A mistake in judgment is 
not wicked, precisely because mistakes are 
the necessary consequence of candid ex- 
amination by our imperfect reason. Sin- 
cerity, not infallibility, is our moral duty. 
Similarly, it is right to judge of ourselves 
as fairly as we can; out the difficulties 
which beset the task of at once seating 
ourselves on the bench and taking our 
place at the bar are so great, that the least 
prejudiced of self-critics will often blun- 
der. The sanguine observer will differ 
from the melancholy ; the man of quick 
sympathies will be more apt to be affected 
for good or evil by his neighbor's judg- 
ment, than the man whose affections may 
be stronger though less mobile ; the excit- 
able man will be led into one extreme or 
the other more easily than the phlegmatic; 
a vivid imagination predisposes us to ac- 
cept a set of tests different from that 
which would commend themselves to the 
severe logician ; and, moreover, a man's 
judgment of his own character will vary 
from day to day, like his judgment of all 
other matters, according to the state of 
his liver or his banker's balance. All 
these — and many other — difficulties are 
so inevitable, that we must look with com- 
passion upon a wrong estimate so long as 
It is not palpably due to some irrelevant 
cause. Only when a man is vain for some 
bad reason — because he has a longer 
purse or a more uncommon disease than 
liis neighbors — and cases of far more 
eccentric judgment are not uncommon — 
he is admitting evidence which he clearly 
ought to have excluded. The errors of 
the judge in this case imply not only falli- 
bility but corruption ; he has taken a bribe 
from some of his passions, and he deserves 
some of the indignation due to such un- 
worthy leanings. 

I am, you say, capable of being a great 
poet ; my talents shall not be lost to the 
world ; 1 will brave poverty, anxiety, con- 
tempt ; my fellow-creatures may repent 
their indifference, and render a tardy hom- 
age over my grave or to my declining 
years. Brave words I but words as easy 



GENIUS AND VANITY. 



to the fool, the knave, and the charlatan as 
to the neglected martyr of the race. Is 
your first judgment beyond all suspicion — 
not only of error but of sincerity? Are 
you not biassed by some baser motive, 
when you pronounce yourself to be one 
of the elect ? If you really hold that your 
wretched dribble of mechanical metre is 
equal to the mighty harmony of a Milton, 
you must be wanting in ear for the music 
of verse; if you take your tinsel-decked 
platitudes for the passionate utterance of a 
great intellect, stirred to its depth by the 
sadness of the world's tragedies, you are 
probably deficient in philosophical insight ; 
if you cannot see the difference between 
your conception of the world as a gigantic 
pot-house, or a magnified stock-exchange, 
and that which represents in their full 
force the purifying and ennobling passions, 
it is probable that there is a gap or two in 
your morality. Making all allowances for 
the difficulty of self-judgment, there re- 
mains a strong presumption that the man 
who takes a daub — even a daub of his 
own manufacture — for a true master- 
piece, is deficient in the power of sharing, 
as well as in the power of uttering, the 
loftiest thoughts. You cannot put colors 
on canvas because you cannot see them in 
nature. Your artistic standard is low be- 
cause you are incapable of the high emo- 
tions which it is the true function of the 
best art to express, and the full utterance 
of which is the one true test of artistic 
excellence. You appeal to vulgar tastes 
because you are wanting in innate refine- 
ment. It it due to other bad qualities 
if you take size for sublimity, contortion 
for force, intricacy for subtlety ; if brutal- 
ity appears to you to be strength of feel- 
ing, and sensuality to be masculine vigor. 
If- you succeed, you are a charlatan; and 
if you fail, your failure is deserved. Your 
vanity is the index, not of the inevitable 
illusion of self-contemplation, but of a 
mean, or narrow, or degraded nature. 

Such a verdict would be inevitable, if 
the power of representing, were always 
proportioned to the power of feeling, emo- 
tions; if prdductivity and receptivity were 
but opposite forms of the same power. 
Notoriously this is not the case. Silence 
may sometimes indicate a defect of the 
organs of speech, not an absence of 
thought. Many a man enjoys nature heart- 
ily, who cannot put together two lines of 
description ; and yet he may fancy him- 
self to be eloquent, because he naturally 
infers that the clumsy phrases which ex- 
press his own sentiment must express the 
sentiments of others. Moli^re's old 



GENIUS AND VANITY. 



S7 



woman is a typical case. Thousands can 
enjoy for one who can create, or even 
assign intelligible reasons for his judg- 
ment. Unluckily, many such old women 
fancy that their appreciation of their 
Moli^re entitles them to write comedies. 
The weakness is an amiable one. We 
ought to pity those poor dumb poets who 
have music in their souls, and strive in vain 
to embody it in artistic shape. So long as 
they do not insist upon our reading their 
verses, we will tolerate and even love 
them. Sincere devotion to art is perhaps 
most touching in those to whom art never 
makes anv return of praise and success. 
But it is the more necessary to distinguish 
clearly between these victims of an mno- 
cent delusion and those whose delusion 
implies incapacity, not only to produce but 
to enjoy. One class worships at the true 
shrine, though its ofiEerings are poor ; the 
other grovels before an ugly idol, because 
it is dead to the true instinct of venera- 
tion, and admires the reflection of its own 
base passions. 

How shall we tell whether the vanity of 
an artist be of the noxious or innocent 
kind? The most applicable test is per- 
haps to be found in the nature of the 
alleged motive. When a man says or in- 
sinuates that his primary object is the good 
of the world, we may reasonably set him 
down as a humbug. The transparency of 
the pretext is too obvious; and the im- 
plied belief that his final success is really 
a result in which the world at large can be 
seriously interested, indicates a vanity too 
gigantic to be quite innocent. In truth, 
there are two and only two excuses which 
can be accepted as a sufficient justification 
for adding to the masses of existing liter- 
ature. One is that you want money ; the 
other that you cannot help it. Johnson 
went so far as to say that any man must 
be a fool who wrote for anything but 
money. The statement is a little too 
sweeping ; but we must admit — when it 
is genuine — the plea of necessity. Writ- 
ing, at all events, is an honest trade pro- 
vided that the author does not lie or flat- 
ter base passions. It is rather difficult for 
a professional author to comply with that 
proviso ; but, so long as he supplies good 
wholesome food, sells his wares for what 
they are worth, and pretends to no higher 
motive, he is an innocent and even useful 
member of society. He may rank with 
other honest tradesmen, and is at least as 
well employed in selling his literarv talents 
to publishers as a lawyer in selling his 
rhetoricar powers to attorneys. 

The best work, indeed, is probably as- 



cribable to loftier motives. It has been 
accomplished not under pressure of want, 
but because an active mind, dominated by 
new thoughts, or set on fire by an imagi- 
native impulse, is constrained to utter 
itself in some way to the world. It must 
speak or burst ; action of some kind is an 
imperative necessity ; and it is a question 
of circumstance and character whether the 
impulse spends itself in producing philoso- 
phy, or poetry, or art, or practical activity. 
The spontaneity characteristic of such 
work is the quality which determines 
whether a poem is to live or to die ; it is 
the discriminating mark between the man- 
ufactured article and the genuine organic 
growth. The test, of course, covers that 
other variety of literature — including 
much of the very highest — in which the 
writing is considered not as an end, but a 
means ; where the polished style and strict 
order are the symptoms of an intense de- 
sire to accomplish some ulterior object — 
to strike down a pestilent fallacy, to en- 
courage the supporters of a good cause, to 
disseminate ideas which may lift mankind 
to a higher social order. In Such cases a 
man may be excused if he is eager for 
some testimony of success. The degree 
of attention which he excites is the meas- 
ure of the work which he has done. He 
looks for praise as the artillery officer 
looks for the cloud of dust which shows 
that his shot has struck home at the right 
point of the hostile lines. Unluckily, 
there are many people who seem to be 
content so long as they can make the dust 
fly without reference to the means adopted 
or to the purpose contemplated. 

This is, in fact, the motive which is ex- 
cluded by our suggested tests. The 
affected desire to do good to the world 
means really a desire that the world may 
sing our praises. The love of praise as 
praise, the simple appetite for incense, as 
thick and stupefying as may be, is the 
really bad symptom, as it is the bane of our 
modern literature. This is the true mark 
of the charlatan, and the natural fruit of 
that kind of vanity which deserves all the 
contempt that can be poured upon it. No 
stings can be too severe which help to kill 
down the noxious swarm of parasites which 
find their natural food in the fulsome 
stream of adulation. For, unluckily for 
us, there was never a time when tliis weak- 
ness was so prevalent, because there never 
was a time when the power of advertising, 
and therefore of winning notoriety without 
attaining excellence, was so enormous. 
The evil tends to corrupt the highest and 
most sensitive natures. A man can 



GENIUS AND VANITY. 



S8 

scarcely keep his head, when the voice of 
real sympathy is drowned by the chorus 
of insincere jubilation. By an anachro- 
nism — which has too many parallels — 
we are still employed in denouncing an 
excess which has long been supplanted by 
its contrary. We abuse the severe critics 
who quench youthful genius. The true 
evil is different. The really mischievous 
persons are those appreciative and gen- 
erous critics who force all eminent writers 
to live, whether they wish it or not, in an 
atmosphere so thick with the fumes of 
incense as to be enervating to the strong- 
est constitutions. A clique is notoriously 
bad ; with our customary twaddle about 
generous criticism, we are going far to 
make the whole literary world into one 
gigantic clique. Youthful genius is no 
longer crushed — it is puffed into imbecil- 
ity. We long for some of the bracing air 
01 the old slashing criticism, which, if it 
caused much useless pain, did at least 
promote the growth of tough fibres instead 
of fatty degeneration of tissue. 

But, leaving this aside, let us assume 
that a man's vanity is harmless and his 
ambition pure. He really thinks that he 
can bestow upon his fellow-men gifts of 
truth and beauty. He fancies, to put the 
case distinctly, that he can produce a new 
" Hamlet.*' He sees that he must choose 
between his bread-and-butter and his lit- 
erary ambition. Which course deserves 
our approval .'* Shall we praise him for 
daring greatly or for listening to the voice 
of respectability? If we prefer the more 
venturous course, we must, of course, ad- 
mire the Haydons, and many men without 
Haydon's talent, who have been martyrs to 
their courage. If not, we prefer Philistia 
to Bohemia, and sympathize with the nu- 
merous parents who have condemned 
Pegasus to harness. There are, it is to 
be observed, two distinct problems. First, 
we may ask whether it is better to pay 
your bills or to produce a " Hamlet " ? 
Secondly, as nobody can be certain that 
his work is really a " Hamlet," we must 
ask whether it is better to pay or take the 
chance of producing what may possibly 
turn out to be a " Hamlet " ? 

Most people will answer the first ques- 
tion with little hesitation. Better, they 
will say, that Shakespeare's butchers, 
bakers, and landlady should have gone 
unpaid, thou";h want of payment had meant 
starvation; better that the debt should 
have gone on accumulating at compound 
interest from that day to the present, than 
that " Hamlet" should have been burked. 
What would be the loss of a few trades- 



men compared to the loss of one of the 
few imperishable monuments of human 
genius ? The two things are not compar- 
able. A man who could pronounce against 
" Hamlet " would be capable of breaking 
up Westminster Abbey to mend the 
Thames embankment. But is this so very 
clear ? Are we perfectly certain that our 
valuation is just ? Assuming that " Ham- 
let " deserves all the praises it has received 
from Shakespeare's most slavish idolaters, 
I confess that I should still have certain 
twinges of doubt. What, after all, is the 
worth of any creation of human genius ? 
What is the proportion between the value 
of a work of art and the artist's ordinary 
discharge of his daily duties? What — 
for that seems to be the real question — is 
the value to the world of its greatest men ? 
What is the value of a Shakespeare, as 
measured against the value of an honest 
grocer ? 

We cannot adjust the proportion to a 
nicety, nor even with approximate accu- 
racy. The right point would doubtless lie 
somewhere between the extravagance of 
the hero-worshipper and the deprecatory 
view of that kind of spiritual democracy 
which holds that the individual is nothing 
and the multitude everything. But it is 
equally clear that the average opinion has 
been hitherto deflected from the true line 
by the enthusiast far more than by the 
cynic. The more we know, the more 
clearly we realize the vastness of the debt 
which even the greatest owe to their ob- 
scure contemporaries. Every advance of 
criticism diminishes the share of glory due 
to the great man, and increases the merit 
of his co-operators. History sees every- 
where, not the work of a solitary legisla- 
tor, but processes implying the slow growth 
of many generations. The scattered stars 
of the firmament are but bright points in 
vast nebulas revealed by closer observa- 
tion. In art, the importance of the social 
medium, relatively to the single performer, 
assumes ever greater proportions. But 
what is this but to diminish the extrav- 
agant value attributed to single perform- 
ances ? Their intrinsic excellence may 
not be lessened, but we must Lnver our 
estimate of their importance as self-orig- 
inated and creative forces. ** Hamlet " 
may be incomparably superior to " The 
Maid's Tragedy" or "The Duchess of 
Malfi ; " but we must admit that Shake- 
speare was but a co-operator with Fletcher 
and Webster. The general character of 
the period would not have been greatly 
altered had Shakespeare died of the 
measles ; though it would have left behind 



GENIUS AND VANITY. 



59 



it a less superlative relic. The disregard 
of the second-rate performers has fallen in 
with the tendency to adulate success. 
What passes for criticism of great men 
has become a mere competition in extrav- 
agance. Each man tries to raise a loftier 
cloud of incense, and grovel more pro- 
foundly in the dust. He wins a cheap 
praise of generosity and generality by 
tacitly depressing the mass, in order to 
give a more imposing air to the pinnacle 
on which he erects his solitary hero. 

Without speaking, however, of those 
monstrous accumulations of hyperbolic 
panegyrics, which form the monuments of 
our great men, we should rather alter our 
view of the importance than of the excel- 
lence of the supreme poets and thinkers. 
Let them tower above their fellows as 
much as you please. Say, if you will, 
that the powers implied by the greatest 
achievements are different in kind, as well 
as degree, from those possessed by their 
humbler brethren. Still it will remain 
true, first that the greatest of men is but 
the organ through which thoughts and 
feelings common to thousands and millions 
of his fellows find their fullest expression. 
He is not an isolated phenomenon dropped 
into the world from without, but the finest 
of flowers, which appears when the soil 
and the atmosphere are fully prepared for 
his development. Cut the flower down 
and it could not be replaced ; but its dis- 
appearance would have but a minor influ- 
ence upon the conditions to which it was 
due- The same conceptions of the world 
and of man^s place in it would mould the 
thoughts of the time, though they would 
be less sharply impressed and less obvious 
to their successors. And, in the next 
place, a man's influence upon his own con- 
temporaries is that which is incomparably 
the most important We are what we are 
because Shakespeare's contemporaries 
were what they were ; and doubtless Shake- 
speare's influence in forming them must 
count for something. But we are not 
what we are because we read Shake- 
speare's plavs. Of course we derive a 
good deal of pleasure from them. They 
mfluence our literature — very often for 
evil — and they supply us with innumer- 
able quotations and imaginative symbols. 
But their effect upon the race is almost a 
vanishing quantity. For, first, not one 
man in a hundred reads them; secondly, 
of those who read, few understand ; and, 
finally, of those who understand, few can 
count the influence of any particular 
author as amongst the forces which have 
really moulded their lives. Do half a 



dozen men in a generation really trace any 
great spiritual change to the power of any 
one writer — especially of a distant pe- 
riod ? This is indeed a point upon which 
we wilfully deceive ourselves, and doubt- 
less the implied assertion may at first 
sight be denied. But let any man exam- 
ine frankly what are the forces which have 
really moulded his nature. He has been 
profoundly affected by his family, by his 
school, by his profession ; by the religious 
faith in which he has been educated; by 
the moral standard accepted around him ; 
and sometimes by the artistic tastes and 
intellectual biasses which are prevalent in 
his day. But how many men can say 
frankly, after real self-examination, that 
their characters have been altered or their 
views of life materially modified by read- 
ing any author, whatever his fame, who 
died even a century ago ? So far as he 
affected the development of the thoughts 
and history of his race, he has, of course, 
affected the development of all subsequent 
time. But I speak of the direct influence 
— of the difference between our character 
as it actually is, and that which it would 
have been if we had not read a particular 
book of a past century. A few literary 
persons will, of course, attribute great 
weight to such readings, and literary peo- 
ple generally speak as if they were the 
whole world. They are really, I fancy, a 
superficial ornament, counting almost for 
zero in the great forces which really move 
mankind. But, of course, this is a senti- 
ment not to be indulged evert in private. 

If, however, there be any share of truth 
in these statements, they naturally limit 
our estimate of the value even of the 
greatest works. Every man has an influ- 
ence, powerful in proportion to his char 
acter, upon his own circle. That will be 
exerted, whether he wishes it or not, and 
whether he puts his thoughts in print or 
expresses them in life. His influence as 
a writer reaches and affects — often very 
deeply — a wide circle of congenial minds, 
who are prepared to receive his teaching. 
Be>-ond that circle, again, he has a vague 
influence upon people who may bear his 
name and think it becoming to have some 
opinion about him. But this last influ- 
ence, if it deserves the name, is one which 
no wise man should desire, and which has 
but a small and uncertain effect. Why 
should I care whether a number of ignorant 
people clatter about my name or not, when 
of me, as I really am, they are radically in- 
capable of knowing anything whatever? 
Yet the knowledge which an indifferent 
contemporary has of a Shakespeare is 



6o 



GENIUS AND VANITY, 



probably as vivid and as influentiaV as the 
knowledge of any but the very finest critics 
in the later generations, when the writer's 
language is already growing dim, and his 
thoughts are embodied in unfamiliar im- 
ages. Even of great men it may be true 
that their influence either upon their chil- 
dren, their friends, or their dependents is 
far more important than that which they 
exercise by direct communication with 
distant ages. The most powerful voice 
becomes faint as it spreads into ever- 
widening spheres. It then becomes but 
the ghost of a real utterance — a faint 
murmur of half-forgotten meaning, loud 
enough to be heard in the study, but not 
to guide men amidst the rough shocks of 
vivid present experience. My relations 
to my butcher and baker belong to the 
inner sphere, where my influence is still 
potent; and my dealings with them may 
oe more effectual than my dealings with 
posterity, though bearing upon smaller 
matters. 

But you cannot be certain that you are 
a Shakespeare, or even distantly akin to 
Shakespeare. The difficulty of judging 
ourselves, which makes error venial, 
makes dogmatism madness. Nobody has 
a right to say positively that he has drawn 
the one prize out of the many million 
blanks. The English writers of past cen- 
turies, whose books are still alive for any 
but professed students, may be counted 
on the fingers. Granting that you have 
talents and even genius, the probability 
that you will be added to the sacred band, 
instead of perishing with the unknown 
rank and file, is almost infinitesimal. The 
lad who runs away to sea in hopes of be- 
coming an admiral or a Captain Cook, is 
scarcely making a less judicious venture. 
Genius is rare enough, and it is the rare 
exception wlien even genius bears its per- 
fect fruit. The Shakespeare is not merely 
the man of greater power than his neigh- 
bors, but that particular man of great 
powers who appeared when the times 
were ripe and circumstances propitious. 
To stake your happiness on the chance 
that you are an exceptional being under 
exceptional circumstances, is, to say the 
least, daring to the verge of rashness. 
But, if I do not, the world will lose its 
chance of another great poet ! Make 
yourself easy ; the world will get on per- 
fectly well. Nobody is so great in politics, 
but that society could struggle along its 
path of development without him ; nor so 
great in song, but that somehow the emo- 
tions of the world will find some channel 
of utterance. Death — to our ignorance 



at least — is like a dark power stalking 
through the world, striking left and right 
at random, crushing the happy and leav- 
ing the miserable, and destroying the 
genius as well as the fool. But his blow 
never strikes an individual with whom we 
could not dispense. Thought will con- 
tinue to push along every line of develop- 
ment The disappearance of one inquirer 
only transfers to another the discoveries 
which are held to confer immortality; the 
social problem is being worked out by un- 
consciously co-operating millions, and they 
will find a leader to replace the old one ; 
if one man is removed, posterity will have 
to inscribe the name of the immortal 
Jones in its pantheon instead of honoring 
the immortal Smith ; the problem may be 
solved a day later or a day sooner, and 
there may be some differences in the 
terms of the answer ; but the answer will 
be found, and must be the same in 
essence. The great man puts the clock 
on; he does not determine the direction 
of its movement. And it is equally true 
that when thoughts are fermenting m the 
mind of age, and new aspects of nature 
become conspicuous, and new emotional 
phases diminish utterance, people will be 
found to provide the imaginative symbols 
fitted for the embodiment; and the man 
who does, at last will be regarded as the 
creator instead of the product. At any 
rate, it is quite needless for any man to 
fret himself about the fate of the universe. 
There are within this realm five hundred, 
probably five thousand as good as he, and 
those will do best who leave the world 
and their fame to take their chance, and 
aim only at doing the work which lies 
next to hand. 

Leave the universe alone. When a 
regard for the interests of things in general 
is not hypocritical, it is the very madness 
of arrogance. Here, as in so many cases, 
it is the law, though it is an apparent 
paradox, that a man contributes to an end 
most effectually by putting any direct 
reference to the end out of his mind. 
Here, indeed, is a plainer, if not more 
powerful, consideration. Is not the sup- 
posed act of heroism a folly in any case ? 
It requires courage to neglect one's bread- 
and-butter in order to win glory ; but what 
if the neglect of bread-and-butter be the 
shortest way to wreck your genius as well 
as your prospects ? Good work, as a rule, 
is only done by people who have paid 
their bills. Why was Shakespeare so far 
ahead of all contemporary dramatists ? 
Because Shakespeare had the good sense 
to make money, and was theretore able to 



A GREAT sea-wave: 



6z 



command the market, and write his later 
works without undue pressure. Others 
could only write in a tavern^ or to get out 
of a creditor's clutches. Shakespeare-s 
mind was at ease by the consciousness of 
his comfortable investments at Stratford. 
" Hamlet" was written because Shake- 
speare was solvent Pope was able to pol- 
ish his verses because he judiciously made 
himself independent by his " Homer." 
Wordsworth, like Haydon, wished to shake 
the world; but unlike Haydon, he recog- 
nized and acted upon the truth that the 
first condition of such power is personal 
independence. Live for art, if you will ; but 
first be sure that you have not to live by 
your art, otherwise the only harvest that 
you can reap will be that of the first reck- 
less ebullitions, when the responsibility of 
life does not weigh upon the buoyancy of 
youth. Some good work has come out of 
Bohemia ; but any one who sojourns per- 
manently in that seductive region is sure 
to loose his vigor as well as his money, 
and produces in the end mere scraps and 
outlines and ro.ugh indications of what he 
might have done. When we are asked to 
consider how much may have been crushed 
in poets condemned to writing ledgers, we 
can only reply by pointing out how much 
has certainly been lost by poets who have 
run to seed in spunging-houses. From 
the days of Marlowe to those of the un- 
happy Edgar Poe, we have innumerable 
warnings that eenius runs to waste when 
it does not condescend to be respectable. 

We have fallen upon a very common- 
place and humble moral. It is none the 
worse for that, and certainly not the less 
often overlooked. The truth which it is 
really important to enforce more than ever 
is the simple one, that all really good and 
permanent work is the expression, not of 
a single mood of passionate excitement 
or prurient desire for enjoyment, but of a 
mind fully developed, strengthened by 
conflict with the world, and enriched by 
reflection and experience. The first con- 
dition of such a development is indepen- 
dence of spirit, which is seldom obtaina- 
able without independence of pocket. 
The first, though not the loftiest, duty of 
man is to pay his way ; though it must, of 
course, be added, that limitation of wants, 
rather than increase of means, is the legiti- 
mate mode of securing that object. If, 
like Wordsworth, you think that you can 
be a great man by living upon bread and 
water, you are certainly right in not aim- 
ing at the vulgar prizes of money and pre- 
ferment. But a career is honorable even 
if it fails ; ^nd we may safely honor the 



man wl^ limits himself to a modest liveli- 
hood in order to devote himself to great 
work. The evil is that most men want to 
have both advantages ; to live splendidly, 
and yet to stake their means of living 
upon literary fame ; to gain the praise of 
the world as well as the praise of poster- 
ity; and, in short, to set about a cam- 
paign which can only be justified by suc- 
cess without counting the cost beforehand. 
That is why so many men of genius run 
to seed, and so many men of no genius 
fancy that they are acting nobly when they 
neglect their ordinary duties in searcii for 
glory, and fancy that the neatness of their 
ambition is an apology for the imperfec- 
tion of their work. 



From The Spectator. 
A GREAT SEA-WAVE. 

The great sea-wave which, after the 
recent earthquake at Peru, swept across 
the Pacific to the Sandwich Islands, affords 
fresh illustration of the vital enertjy which 
still pervades the frame of our earth. If 
those theories be sound according to which 
each planet during its extreme youth is as 
a sun glowing with fiery heat, and in ex- 
treme old age is, like our moon, cold (save 
where the sun*s rays pour upon it) even to 
its very centre, we should regard the va- 
rious portions of the middle age of a planet 
as indicating more or less of vitality ac- 
cording as the signs of internal heat and 
activity were greater or less. Assuredly, 
thus viewing our earth, we have no reason 
to accept the melancholy doctrine that she 
is approaching the stage of planetary de- 
crepitude. She still shows signs of intense 
vitality, not indeed that all parts of her 
surface are moved at this present time by 
what Humboldt called "the reaction of 
her interior." In this respect, doubtless, 
changes slowly take place, the region of 
disturbance at one time becoming after 
many centuries a region of rest, and vice 
versd. But regarding the earth as a 
whole, we find reason for believing that 
she still has abundant life in her. The 
astronomer who should perceive, even 
with the aid of the most powerful tele- 
scope, the signs of any change in another 
planet (Mars, for example, our nearest 
neighbor among the superior planets), the 
progress of the change being actually dis- 
cernible as fie watched, would certainly 
conclude that that planet was moved by 
mighty internal forces. Now it is not loo 
much to say, though at first it may per- 



63 



A GREAT SEA-WAVE. 



haps seem so, that the mighty sea-wave 
which, on May lo, rushed in upon the 
shores of the group of Sandwich Islands, 
would have been discernible from Venus, 
supposing an observer there had been 
watching the earth with a telescope as 
powerful as the best yet made on this 
earth. The wave was caused, as we know, 
by a tremendous subterranean disturbance 
in Peru a few hours earlier. Here, at 
least, was the centre of subterranean ac- 
tion, for a land wave also travelled from 
that redon alon^ the Pacific coast of Mex- 
ico, and was felt at the Sandwich Isles, 
where the Kilanea volcano was set in mo- 
tion almost at the same time that the sea- 
wave came in. But there can be no doubt 
whatever that, as in the case of the great 
Peruvian earthquake of August, 1868, the 
sea- wave had its origin not in the local 
subterranean disturbances, but in the great 
upheaval by which Iquique and other 
places were destroyed. We shall, no 
doubt, hear before long, as in that case, of 
the arrival of the great wave at the Samoa 
Isles, at the Japanese Archipelago, on the 
shores of New Zealand, Australia, and so 
forth. Now, the great circular wave which 
spread on May 10 last from the Peruvian 
shore as a centre athwart the entire Pacific 
was probably not felt by a single ship in 
the open sea, any more than the still vast- 
er wave of the 13th and 14th of August, 
1868, and for the same reason. With a 
height of some fifteen feet (or thirty feet 
vertical difference between crest and hol- 
low), the wave had yet so gentle a slope 
that, though it rushed at the rate of three 
or four hundred miles an hour across the 
Pacific, the rise and fall of a ship upon its 
surface would be altogether imperceptible. 
The great sea- wave, as Mallet long since 
pointed out, consists, in the deep ocean, 
of " a long, low swell of enormous volume, 
having an equal slope before and behind, 
and that so gentle that it might pass under 
a ship without being noticed." And we 
are told, in fact, by a modern writer, that 
during the rush of the great sea-wave 
across the Pacific on August 13-14, 1868, 
though where the wave reached island 
shores it seemed as though the land were 
first sinking bodily into the ocean and then 
rising bodilv out of it, "there was not one 
among the nundredsof vessels which were 
sailing upon the Pacific when it was trav- 
ersed by the sea-wave in which any un- 
usual motion was perceived.*! 

How, then, it may be asked, can we sup- 
pose that a wave which was not perceived 
Dy those actually sailing; upon the ocean 
traversed by it, could nave been visible 



with suitable telescopic power from a dis- 
tant planet ? The very circumstance which 
rendered the rise and fall of ships upon 
the sea-waves of 1868 and of last May 
imperceptible, assures us that the progress 
of the wave would so have been visible. 
Besides its enormous range in length, for 
when it struck the Sandwich Isles its crest 
must have formed the arc of a great curve, 
having for radius the distance of sixty- 
three hundred miles, separating that group 
from Peru, the wave had great breadth, 
otherwise, its height being about thirty 
feet, the rapid advance of the wave would 
have caused a rapid rise and fall, instead 
of a slow motion only discernible along 
shore-lines. Probably the distance from 
valley to valley, on either side of the 
mighty crest of the wave, was not less 
than two hundred miles in the open sea. 
So far as mere dimensions, then, are con- 
cerned, the great wave would certainly 
have been visible from a planet placed as 
Venus is, when most favorably situated 
for observing the earth. To show this, it 
is only necessary to point out that Venus 
is then much nearer to us than Mars ever 
is, that the entire diameter of Mars is but 
about forty-five hundred miles, while the 
radius of tne great wave, when it reached 
the Sandwich Isles, was fully six thousand 
miles, and that its probable breadth of two 
hundred miles very far exceeds the breadth 
of many of the well-known markings upon 
the planet Mars. 

But it may be asked how the wave would 
become discernible at all, viewed, as it 
were, from above. How should an ob- 
server in Venus know that the highest 
part of the wave was thirty feet or so 
nearer to him than the hollow of the val- 
leys on either side of it? The way in 
which the wave would become \nsible cor- 
responds in some degree to the way in 
which those strange radiations which ex- 
tend from several of the lunar craters are 
visible, though they have very little eleva- 
tion, cast no perceptible shadows, and are 
many of them undiscernible when other 
lunar features are clearly seen, and be- 
come discernible only when those other 
features are scarcely visible at all. Under 
the sun's rays, the two opposite faces of 
the advancing waves would be differently 
illuminated. One face, a hundred miles 
broad, be it remembered, would catch the 
light more fully than the ocean as yet un- 
disturbed, while the other would catch the 
light less fully. Thus the mighty arc of 
the wave would appear as a double arc, 
one-half of its breadth being bright, the 
other (relatively) dark. W6 do not say 



NORTH-COUNTRY FISHERMEN. 



that the wave would be a very striking or 
obvious feature of the earth^s disc as seen 
from Venus, but that it would be discerni- 
ble under the same telescopic power which 
the Herschels, Lassell, Rosse, and others 
have applied to the celestial objects as 
seen from the earth, we have little doubt. 
If so, since not only would it be perceived 
as a new feature, but also its motion across 
the Pacific be traceable, and the tran- 
sience of the phenomenon quickly rcc6g- 
nized, it would a£Eord observers on that 
planet the clearest evidence of the activity 
of subterranean forces within our earth. 
Those among the observers living on 
Venus who were not content merely to 
observe, but exercised also their reasoning 
faculties to determine the meaning of what 
they saw, would perceive that on or about 
August 13-14, 1868, and agahi on May 10 
last, tremendous throes had shaken some 
portion of the southern half of that long 
double continent lying north and south 
which they have long since recognized on 
our globe ; that the waters of the ocean 
had thus been mightily disturbed ; and 
that a great wave, or rather a succession 
of several great waves, had swept across 
the largest of the terrestrial oceans. They 
would be able even, by noting the velocity 
and variations of velocity of the great 
wave, to determine the depth of the Pacific 
Ocean, and the manner according to which 
the depth varies in the neighborhood of 
difiEerent island groups. It is not alto- 

f ether impossible, indeed, that what we 
ave here described may actually have 
occurred, though on neither of the occa- 
sions when the Pacific has of late been 
swept by a sea-wave was Venus very suit- 
ably placed for observing our planet. 

Apart from thoughts such as these, there 
is much in a phenomenon like this great 
sea-wave well worth considering. When 
we recognize in the subterranean forces of 
our earth an energy competent to disturb 
the entire surface of the Pacific, we per- 
ceive how vain are the fears of those who 
imagine that the earth's Vulcanian ener- 
gies are very nearly exhausted. There is 
nothing to show that at any time of which 
geology affords evidence throes more 
mighty than those which have shaken Peru 
and Chili within the last half-century have 
disturbed any portion of the earth's frame. 
In former times indeed, when geologists 
were accustomed to regard the processes 
of an entire era as completed in a single 
throe, men might well believe that the 
earth had sunk into relative quiescence. 
But now that close study has enabled them 
to separate the effects of one process from 



63 

those of another, to recognize — not in full 
perhaps, but in great degree — the influ- 
ence of time as an important factor in 
geological development, they are able to 
make a juster comparison between past 
and present disturbances. The result is, 
that, although we cannot doubt that the 
earth is parting with the heat which is the 
source of its Vulcanian energies, we find 
every reason to believe thdt the loss of 
energy is taking place so slowly that the 
diminution during many generations is 
altogether imperceptible. As a modern 
writer has remarked, when we see that 
while mountain ranges were being up- 
heaved or valleys depressed to their pres- 
ent position, race after race and type after 
type lived out on the earth the long lives 
which belong to races and to types, we 
recognize the great work which the earth's 
subterranean forces are still engaged upon. 
Even now continents are being slowly de- 
pressed or upheaved, even now mountain 
ranges are being raised to a different 
level, table-lands are being formed, great 
valleys are being gradually scooped out, 
old shore-lines shift their place, old sound- 
ings vary, the sea advances in one place 
and retires in another; on every side, 
nature's plastic hand is still at woric, mod- 
elling and remodelling the earth, and mak- 
ing it constantly a fit abode for those who 
dwell upon it. 



From The Pall Mall Gazette. 
NORTH-COUNTRY FISHERMEN. 

If contrasts go far to make life pleasant, 
the North-country fisherman has no cause 
to complain. Day after day you may see 
him lounging listlessly in thick blue jersey 
and sou'wester hat, with hands plunged in 
the pockets of the woolly pantaloons, that 
are thrust in their turn into the well-oiled 
boots. But we must hasten to add that 
on these occasions he is thrown back upon 
idleness in spite of himself. A rattling 
gale is blowing on shore ; the laden steam- 
vessels of the northern coal-fleet are lying 
storm-bound in the mouths of the rivers ; 
the waves are rolling landwards in tum- 
bling banks of foaming water, and break- 
ing in sheets of spray over the reefs on 
that rugged coast. Then the fisherman 
compromises with the elements. He does 
not sit solitary in his cottage, moping over 
the fire ; but though he exposes himself in 
the open, he is as careful to be sheltered 
from the blast as if he were afraid of its 
taking the bloom off his delicate complex- 



64 



NORTH-COUNTRY FISHERMEN. 



ion. Nothing can well be more ludicrous 
than these groups of sturdy men, with fig- 
ures that seem half as broad as they are 
long, stepping the quarterdeck under the 
lee of some shed that allows them about a 
couple of strides either way. Now and 
again one of them who constitutes himself 
the look-out will show his head cautiously 
round the corner and take a circular ob- 
servation sea^vard, drawing back the mo- 
ment the duty is discharged. To be sure, 
there is nothing in the world to note. 
The odds are, with the wind in that quar- 
ter, that it may go on blowing great guns 
for days ; and when the wind has fallen it 
must be many hours more before the 
waves follow its example. That stolid 
resignation to the inevitable is a triumph 
of patience, and savors in some degree 
of Mohammedan fatalism. For all the 
time the bread-winning is in suspense, and 
no one has a better notion of the worth of 
a day's wage than these unemotional vic- 
tims of uncontrollable circumstances. 
But, thanks to strong tobacco and short 
pipes, they tide over the interval in seem- 
ing contentment; and even when the long- 
looked-for time comes at last they iCre not 
flurried out of their constitutional deliber- 
ation. The wind, that had been whistling 
through the chimney-pots more fitfully, 
sank fairly down with the sun; and the 
whole of the village is afoot at daybreak, 
with everything carefully prepared before- 
hand. The lines are knotted and coiled, 
the supplies of bait laid in, and the boats 
all ready for launching. One after another 
they are hoisted upon wheels and run 
down the shelving beach by dozens of will- 
ing arms. The crews tumble in, three or 
four men and a boy. The heavy oars are 
out, and away they labor through the 
winding channel among the half-submerged 
rocks. It is no easy navigation even now, 
for the groundswell is chafing in the pas- 
sage which confines it, and were the 
weather-worn planks dashed against the 
jagged points the broad-bottomed boat 
would shiver like a walnut-shell. But 
strength and skill run the gauntlet safely, 
and one by one they are tossing in the 
offing. It is a pretty sicjht to any one 
looking down from the bluffs, the scatter- 
ing of the little fishing fleet. The sun has 
been getting^ the better of the breaking 
mist; he is shining brilliantly on the white- 
crested waves, and gilding the brown 



patches of seaweed. Tke damp on the dark 
rocks, with their fluttering fringes of weed, 
makes them glisten like polished ebony. 
The flocks of white-breasted seagulls are 
stooping and screaming overhead, or gath- 
ering clamorously on the spits of sand in 
search of materials for a voracious break- 
fast. The broad black boats are dancing 
and disappearing like so many corks, in a 
way that would be terribly trying to un- 
seasoned diaphragms. But a day like 
that, supposing the take to be successful, 
is one of the white-letter days in the fish- 
erman's calendar. He strips his tarpaulin 
coat and over-jersey, and he goes about 
his work luxuriously in the pleasant 
warmth. 

That is literally the sunny side of his 
life ; but then comes the reverse. We do 
not speak of habitual exposure to wet and 
cold, for to that he is comparatively insen- 
sible, or he endures it in the way of his 
business. But there is always the chance 
of a surprise which may be fatal, or which, 
at all events, may cost him his nets or 
lines. Though tolerably well read in the 
si^ns of the weather, he is very far from 
infallible. Besides, he cannot always be 
shirking the risks he apprehends, and it is 
not his way to sin on the side of over- 
caution. The wind shifts round suddenly, 
or a storm blows up from the land. Then 
his return is cut off as effectually as if the 
beach were sealed by a shoal of torpedoes. 
Many of the fishing hamlets, like the one we 
have described, are only to be approached 
through such a labyrinth of reefs as we 
have noticed. In a gale off the shore, the 
passage is impracticable, for even steering 
in after dark in favorable weather you 
must take the bearings by the lights that 
are run up to landmarks. If the worst 
come to the worst, there is nothing for it 
but to run, keeping the boat before the 
wind and trusting in Providence. The 
men must do their best to give a berth to 
the dangerous shore where their wives 
and families are anxiously expecting 
them ; and if they can keep the boat 
afloat by skilful steering and indefatigable 
baling, and if they can support sinking 
nature on their scanty stores, they drive 
past harbors that offer them no refuge, 
till they are drifted at last on the dunes 
of the Dutch coast or to an anchorage in 
one of the northern estuaries. 



LITTELL'S LIVING- AGE. 



Fifth Seriei, ^ 
Volume JLllL 5 



No. 1726. -July 14, 1877. 



{From Beginningf 
Vol. OXZXIV. 



CONTENTS. 

I. Pedigrees and Pedigree-Makers. By 

Edward A. Freeman, Contemporary Review^ . 

II. The Marquis of Lossie. By George Mac 
Donald, author of " Malcolm/' etc. Part 
XX., Advance Sheets^ . 

III. Voltaire in the NETiiERLAtiDS. From 

the Dutch of Jhr.'C. A. van Sypesteyn, . Temple Bar, . , 

IV. Pauline. By L. B. Walford, author of " Mr. 

Smith," etc Part VII., .... Advance Sheets, . 

V. Mordecai ; A Protest against the Crit- 
ics. By a Jew, MacmUlan^s MagoMtne, 

VI. Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By 

William Black. Part XX., • . . Examiner, . 

VII. Popular Errors, Pall Mall Gazette, 

VIII. Little Tortures, Liberal Review, . 

IX. William Caxton Fireside, 

X. A New Stimulant — Pitury, . . • Nature, • 



67 

85 
97 

IDS 

112 

121 
124 
126 
127 
128 



POETRY. 

Thisbe, 66 1 To Victor Hugo. By Alfred Tcnny- 

A Hope, 66 1 son, 66 



PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY 

LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON 



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An extra copy of Thb Living Agb is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. 

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Single Numben of Thb Livufo AgB| 18 centSi 



66 



THISBE, ETC. 



THISBE. 
I. 



She lives in the smoky city. 
Low down by the railway line ; 

But she asks for no man's pity, 
Nor cares for verse of mme. 



She's moving hither and thither, 
And often her work is hard ; 

But sometimes in fine weather 
She rests a bit in the yard. 



With the empty pail behind her, 
' She leans her arms on the wall, 
And hopes that there heMI find her, 
Her lover, streng and talL 



Up in the air above her, 
The great trains outward go ; 

And many a lass and her lover 
May journey to Jericho, 



But when he stoops from his doorway, 

And leans his arms on the wall, 
The world would be in a poor way 
If that were not best of all. 
Blackwood's Magasine. J. R. S. 



A HOPE. 



I. 

Slowly we gather and with pain 
From many toils a scanty gain ; 
We strive to know, but scant our powers, 
And short the time and strait the bounds. 
And ever-unsurmounted towers 
The mortal barrier that surrounds 
Our being ; and the body still. 
Imperious slave, betrays the wilL 
Slowly we cather and with pain, — 
But quick the scattering again ; 
Whether it chance the failing brain 
Lets slip tlie treasure it hath won 
Through weary days, or sudden blow 
Lays the unshattered fabric low. 
And all our doing is undone. 

n. 

Slowly a nation builds its life 
From barbarous chaos into law 
And kindly social ties and awe 
Of powers divine. For civil strife 
Still opens wide within the walls 
The yawning gulf that will not close 
Until the noblest victim falls ; 
Or, fierce without, the shock of foes 
In one wild hour of blood overthrows 
The labor of the patient years ; 



And when at last the work appears 

Complete in stately strength to stand. 

Riot with parricidal blow, 

Or mad ambition's traitor hand. 

Fierce clutching at the tyrant's crown. 

In headlong ruin lays it low. 

Or brute battalions tread it down. 

Or ease and luxury and sin, 

Fell cankers sown of peace, devour, 

Till trappings of imperial power 

Hide but the living death within. 

III. 

But doubtless growth repairs decay. 
And still the great world grows to more, 
Though men and nations pass away. 
But what if at the source of dav 
Some cosmic change exhaust tne store 
Which feeds the myriad forms of life ? 
What if some unimagined strife 
Should raise so high the solar fire. 
That all this solid earthly frame 
Should in as brief a space expire 
As raindrops in a furnace-flame ? 

IV. 

Yet, if our faith is not the scheme 
Of priestly cunning, nor a dream 
Which with some fair illusion caught 
Our ungrown manhood's childish thought ; 
If Christmas tells us true, " To-day 
The Child Divine in Bethlehem lay;" 
If He is Man who, past the ken 
Of Science in her widest ranee. 
Orders the laiv of ceaseless change, 
CoAtent we khow (hat lives of men 
Pass as the leaves of spring away,— > 
That time will bring its final day 
To the great world itself, secure 
The Eternal Manhood shall endure. 
Specutor. Alfred Church. 



TO VICTOR HUGO. 

Victor in poesy, Victor in romance. 
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears, 
French of the French, and lord of human 

tears; 
Child-lover ; bard whose fame-lit laurels glance 
Darkening the wreaths of all that would ad- 
vance, 
Beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers ; 
Weird Titan by thy winter weight of years 
As yet unbroken, stormv voice of France I 
Who dost not love our England — so they say ; 
I know not — England, France, all man to bi 
Will make one people ere man's race be run : 
And I, desiring that diviner day, 
Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy 
To younger England in the boy mv son. 
Nineteenth Century. ALFRED TENNYSON, 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERSi 



From The Contempoiary Review. 
PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 

^^ Stemmaia quid faciuntf^^ was the 
well-known question of the Roman satir- 
ist, a question which has offended many 
whose one ground for self-complacency 
would be taken away if the answer were 
to be the sweeping negative doctrine that 
all pedigrees go for nothing. But when 
Juvenal said or implied that pedigrees 
went for nothing, he was thinking of pedi- 
grees which really were pedigrees. His 
doctrine was that it did not matter what 
forefathers a man had, that what did mat- 
ter was what the man was himself. This 
doctrine is one which is true and which is 
not true, according as we admit or reject 
the belief that the question what a man is 
at all depends on the question who his fore- 
fathers were. In some cases it is quite 
certain that what a man is himself does 
depend to some extent upon who his fore- 
fathers were. It made a difference at 
Rome whether a man's forefathers were 
Fabii or Claudii. There was a likelihood^ 
amounting almost to a moral certainty, that 
a Fabius would be one kind of man, and 
that a Claudius would be quite another 
kind of man. In such cases the pedigree 
did matter ; it was a thoroughly practical 
thing. But all this went on the assump- 
tion that the pedigree was at least true, 
that its stages could be really made out, 
either by natural descent or by legal adop- 
tion. And, whatever we say as to the god 
or hero with whom the pedigree commonly 
started, the stages within historical times 
were doubtless for the most part genuine. 
But when we turn over an English peer- 
age, or a book of English pedigrees of 
any kind, we are tempted to put Juvenal's 
question in another sense. ^^ Stemmata 
quid faciuntf^* What are pedigrees 
worth 1 when stage after stage, not in 
mythical but in recorded ages, not among 
gods and heroes, but among men who 
ought to be real, is purely mythical — if 
indeed mythical is not too respectable a 
name for what must be in many cases the 
work of deliberate invention. I turn over 
a peerage or other book of genealogy, and 
I find that, when a pedigree professes to 
be traced back to the times of which I 
know most in detail, it is all but invariably 



67 

false. As a rule, it is not only false, but 
impossible. There is, as a rule, no need 
to turn to authorities to confute the tale. 
In the eyes of any one who knows the 
times in which the tale is placed, the tale 
confutes itself. When a pedigree goes 
back as far as the eleventh century, in a 
vast majority of cases there is not only no 
authority for the alleged facts, but there 
could be no authority. The names, the 
descriptions, the titles, are for the most 
part such as were altogether unknown at 
the time when they are supposed to have 
been borne. The historical circumstances, 
when any are introduced, are for the most 
part, not merely fictions, but exactly that 
kind of fiction which is, in its beginning, 
deliberate and interested falsehood. 

In so saying, there is no reason to blame 
the present representatives of the families 
concerned. There is at least no reason 
to blame them for anything more serious 
than failing to examine tales which they 
have heard from their childhood, and 
which it is a kind of point of family honor 
to believe. On those who edit the volumes 
in which the tales appear one might be 
inclined to be harsher. What, for in- 
stance, can be the state of mind of Sir 
Bernard Burke ? Does he know, or does 
he not know, the manifest falsehood of 
the tales which he reprints year after year ? 
He may, one is tempted to say, be reason- 
ably called on for a more critical examina- 
tion than we can ask from people who 
simply send him the stories which they 
have been taught to believe about their 
own families. If he says that he is not 
responsible for them, that he simply puts 
into his book what is sent to him without 
examining into its truth, if he says that 
the responsibility for the truth or false- 
hood of the stories rests with those who 
send them to him, he shows a very imper- 
fect notion of the duties of authorship or 
editorship, even in its lowest form. No 
man can have a right to publish, without 
contradiction or comment, as alleged fact 
and not as avowed fiction, a number of 
stories which are false on the face of them. 
The readers of the book accept the stories 
on the faith of the author or editor. If 
they think about the matter at all, they 
hold that it is his business to examine and 



6i 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS; 



verify the statements which are sent to 
him. Indeed Sir Bernard Burke himself 
tells us, in his " Prefatory Notice " pre- 
fixed to the the thirty-second edition of 
his *' Peerage and Baronetage," that he has 
''again subjected its pages to searching 
revision and extensive amendment." Here 
then Sir Bernard Burke distinctly takes on 
himself, what reason would have laid upon 
him even if he had not taken it upon him- 
self, namely, responsibility for his own 
book. It is the Ulster king-at-arms, not 
the unknown persons who send him the 
accounts of this or that family, whom we 
must in fairness blame for the monstrous 
fictions which appear as the early history 
of so many families. We have no right 
to expect much historical criticism from 
the man who sends in the account of his 
own family which has for some genera- 
tions, perhaps for some centuries, passed 
current as the history of that family. He 
very naturally accepts it as he finds it, 
without examination of any kind. It 
would indeed be a kind of heroic sacrifice 
on behalf of truth, if he did critically ex- 
amine what his father and grandfather and 
great-grandfather have handed down as 
something which tends to the honor of the 
family. He is in no way blameworthy 
simply for believing the fable in the first 
instance. He becomes blameworthy only 
if he sticks to the fable after it has been 
clearly shown to him that it is a fable. 
But a harsher measure must be dealt to 
the editor who year after year puts forth 
these monstrous fictions, without contra- 
diction, commonly without qualification or 
hesitation of any kind. For it is practi- 
cally no qualification to bring a story in 
with some such formula as *' it is said " or 
"tradition affirms." Readers, especially 
readers of books of this class, need to be 
told in very plain words that the stories 
are false, that in most cases they must be 
false, that they carry their own confutation 
with them. Nothing short of this clear 
warning will make the mass of people see 
the real state of the case ; and this warn- 
ing Sir Bernard Burke never gives them. 
The fault therefore lies wholly with those 
who invented the tales in past times, and 
with those who spread them abroad now 
without giving any help towards contra- 



dicting them. From Sir Bernard Burke 
we have a right to except historical crit- 
icism, and we do not get it. He subjects 
his pages to searching revision and exten- 
sive amendment. But such is the abiding 
life of the fables that they live through all 
revision and all amendment. The battle lies 
therefore with those who actively put forth 
fables when it is their business to put 
forth truths. The peer or baronet or 
esquire who does nothing worse than pas- 
sively accept what his forefathers accepted 
before him need be the object of no quar- 
rel at all. It is only when he has been 
often rebuked and still hardens his neck 
that he can be set down as a conscious 
accomplice of the Ulster king-at-arms. 

In pointing out some of the strange fic- 
tions which disfigure the pages of our 
peerages and other books of pedigrees, I 
shall keep myself strictly to those pedi- 
grees which touch the English history of 
those times of which I believe myself to 
have some minute knowledge. I leave 
the Scots and the Britons to settle their 
own forefathers ; nor do I stop to exam- 
ine i>edigrees of much later date. And I 
do this, not only because I am most at 
home in a particular period, but because 
the period in which I am most at home 
happens to be the period where it is most 
needful unsparingly to wield the critical 
hatchet against the thick growth of genea 
logical falsehood. Several special causes 
of falsehood affect the genealogical his- 
tory of the eleventh and twelfth centuries 
which do not affect either earlier or later 
times. It is only a very eccentric geneal- 
ogist here and there who insists on car- 
rying back his detailed pedigree into times 
before the eleventh century. As a rule, 
the inventors of pedigrees did not know 
enough or care enough about those ages 
to invent any fictions about them. There 
are plenty of fables in vogue about those 
ages ; but they are seldom genealogical 
fables, and, when they are, they are easily 
exposed. With later times, the nearer we 
get to modern days, the means of detec- 
tion become easier, and the danger of 
invention therefore becomes greater. If 
a pedigree is satisfied to start in Stewart 
or Tudor times, it is safe to believe it, 
unless there is some special reason to dis- 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



believe it. If it goes back to the fifteenth, 
fourteenth, or thirteenth century, this or 
that stage may be doubtful, but the thing 
as a whole has a fair chance of being gen- 
uine. But when a pedigree goes back to 
the eleventh century or to the early p:\rt 
of the twelfth, things are altogether 
changed. Some pedigrees which go back 
to that time are undoubtedly true. Some, 
whether true or false, are at least not pal- 
pably false ; they could not be refuted by 
the general historian who does not spe- 
cially give himself to genealogical or local 
study. But these certain and probable 
pedigrees are quite exceptional. The 
mass of pedigrees which go back to those 
times are, by the man who knows those 
times, at once cast aside as false on the 
face of them.- Thev need no examination ; 
their very statement shows that they are 
impossible. When a man says either that 
his forefathers came in with the Conqueror, 
or that his forefathers lived at this or that 
place before the coming of the Conqueror, 
It may so happen that the pedigree is true, 
but there is a strong presumption in favor 
of its falsehood. 

There are some obvious special reasons 
why this age is specially open above all 
others to the inroads of genealogical false- 
hood. I have already hinted at the two 
motives which specially tell this way. 
The time of the Norman Conquest is the 
time to which it became fashionable for 
people to trace up their pedigrees. To 
be of the blood of the invaders of En- 
gland was thought to be something cred- 
itable. Some people undoubtedly came 
of such blood, and could prove that they 
came of it. And of course there must 
have been many others who did come of 
it who could not in the same way prove 
the fact. It thus became a point of honor 
with most families to think themselves 
descended from the companions of the 
Noraoan Conqueror. Those who had no 
real pedigrees to prove it invented false 
pedigrees, which in a few generations did 
just as well. Now we should bear in mind 
that, in some states of the human mind, 
invention of this kind bears a somewhat 
different moral character from what it 
would bear among ourselves. It is really 
part of the mythopoeic process which Mr. 



69 

Grote expounded long ago. It belongs to 
a state of mind when the distinction be- 
tween truth and falsehood in historical 
matters was not very accurately drawn. It 
was taken for granted as a matter of hon- 
est belief, that the family must have 
sprung from some companion of the Con- 
queror, just as it was taken for granted 
thatr every patrician ^or^j" at Athens must 
have sprung from some god or hero. It 
was taken for granted, just as it was taken 
for granted that every nation and every 
city must have been called after the name of 
some personal founder. In all these cases, 
the dishonesty, so far as there is any, con- 
sisted in the particular name chosen. 
That there must have been some founder 
of the received class was a matter of hon- 
est superstition. And, in choosing a 
forefather who should have fought in Wil- 
liam's army, any little accidental circum- 
stance of name, place, or incident was 
naturally seized on as proof. A number 
of little chances might guide a man, either 
in attaching his pedigree to some real per- 
son or in inventing an imaginary person as 
his forefather. When the forefather was 
chosen, exploits grew around him. When 
I say grew, I know perfectly well that 
what we call the growth of a story is 
really the result of the action of a number 
of human wills. The convenient meta- 
phor must not delude us into thinking that 
a story really grows of itself, as a tree 
grows. But in some states of the human 
mind, the acts of the human will by which 
this or that touch is added to a story are 
acts which are barely conscious acts ; 
they are very far from implying that 
guilty consciousness of falsehood which 
they would imply in an age when the 
distinction between historical truth and 
historical falsehood is fully understood. 
We may then fairly say that the story 
grows. There must have been some fore- 
father. The vagueness of a nameless 
forefather was unpleasant; a name for 
him was lighted on or invented. The 
forefather must have performed some ex- 
ploits. The vagueness of exploits with- 
out statement of time, place, or circum- 
stance was unpleasant. Particular ex- 
ploits were devised ; almost any chance 
hint would suggest one kind of exploit 



70 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



rather than another. And all this was 
done, if with no clear belief in the truth 
of the story, yet with no clear conviction 
of its falsehood. The legend of the fam- 
ily is something like the legend of the 
saint. It either was true or it ought to 
have been true. In both cases there may 
have been sheer, conscious, guilty, inven- 
tion ; but there is no need to suppose 
sheer, conscious, guilty, invention in every 
case cither of family legends or of saintly 
legends. In a crowd of cases of both 
kinds the story comes of a state of mind 
which does not wilfully sin against histori- 
cal truth, but which nas not yet learned 
that there is such a thing as historical 
truth. It comes of a state of mind which 
at all events has not yet learned that his- 
torical truth has anything to do with the 
matter of family or saintly legends. 

In this way there arose endless stories, 
how this anci that family was descended 
from this and that real or imaginary com- 
panion of the Conqueror, and how the 
real or imaginary hero did such and such 
— commonly imaginary — exploits. The 
family tree was drawn out according to 
the eternal fitness of the case. In the 
mind of the pedigree-maker the family 
tree is a very venerable thing. In the 
mind of the historian it goes for nothing. 
Descents may be proved ; but they must 
be proved by something very different 
from the family tree or the family legend. 
They must be proved by evidence which 
was meant to prove something else. 
There is, we will say, a deed, whatever 
may be its object — a sale of lands, a pur- 
chase of lands, a grant of lands, the 
enfranchisement of a villain, or anything 
else — which is done, say by John of Sut- 
ton, with the consent of his wife Agnes 
and his son Richard. There is another 
deed done by Richard of Sutton with the 
consent of his mother Agnes and his son 
William. Here is real evidence for three 
stages of the pedigree. Even if the 
deeds should chance to be forgeries, as 
many deeds are, they would still be evi- 
dence. For the object of the former would 
not be to prove steps in the pedigree, but 
to make good some claim or other. He 
would have no motive for falsifying the 
pedigree, and if he made any mistake in 
it, the mistake would be purely accidental.* 

* It must be remembered that there are deeds which 
seem to have been forged on purpose to make out false 

Eedigrees. But I am speaking of deeds of the ordinary 
inds, such as one finds in the cartularies of monas- 
teries, which, whether genuine or spurious, whether 
the claims which they meant to assert were good or 
bad, were not written to prove a pedigree. In either 
case the witness to genealogy is incidental, and has the 
value of incidental witness. 



So, if a man is mentioned in a Pipe-roll or 
any other public document, and his son is 
mentioned in the same or another Pipe- 
roll, there is real evidence for the pedi- 
gree. So again, there mav be the state- 
ments of credible chroniclers, whose story 
may lead them to mention that such ana 
such a man was the son or grandson of 
such or such another man. AH these are 
different forms of real evidence ; and, the 
less the writer of the document was think- 
ing of proving the pedigree, the further 
his statement goes towards proving it. 
There undoubtedly are people who can 
prove by real evidence of this kind that 
they are descended from companions of 
the Conqueror. But the family tree does 
not prove it ; the family tradition does not 
prove it ; the " Battle Abbey Roll " does 
not prove it. In genealogical books we 
sometimes see this last source of false- 
hood seriously referred to. But it is only 
the pedigree-maker who will ever refer to 
it The historian will pass by such trans- 
parent fiction without a word of notice. 
With the true Roll of Winchester before 
him, he need not stop to trouble himself 
for a moment with any of the endless 
forms of the false Roll ot Battle. 

In short, if in this particular period we 
are specially exposed to the assaults of 
falsehood, we have a weapon such as few 
other periods supply us with to wield on 
behalf of truth. It is wonderful how 
many of the absurd tales which fill the 
pages of Sir Bernard Burke may be at 
once cast to the winds by the simple proc- 
ess of turning to Domesday. One is 
tempted to ask whether the inventors of 
pedigrees knew that there was any Domes- 
day. Sometimes indeed a pedigree refers 
to it ; sometimes its statements even help 
to make out a pedigree. But it far more 
commonly happens that, in order to refute 
a pedigree, there is nothing to be done but 
to turn to the proper place in the great 
Survey. Sometimes it is enough to turn 
to the Index to the great Survey. When 
we are told that a certain man came over 
with the Conqueror, that he did wonderful 
exploits and was rewarded with grants of 
land, we can at once put the story to the 
truest of tests. If anything of the kind 
ever happened, the record of it would be 
in Domesday. The Survey would not 
indeed charge itself with describing the 
exploits ; but if the man was a real man 
at all, his name, his lands, most likely his 
title of ofiice, his patronymic or other sur- 
name, if he had one, would all be written 
in the great book. Be he tenant-in-chief 
or under-tenant, be would alike be there. 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



71 



Even if he had died or suffered forfeiture in Shropshire. But Richard of Leighton 

before the lime of ihe Survey, he would be is a perfectly possible man; nay, there is 

there as ilie former owner. The lest is every reason to Ihink that he is a real 

sure i the test is easy ; the certain evidence man. He is a man who might perfectly 

which in earlier or later times can some- well be in Domesday ; only it is not in 

times not be had at all, or which, if it Is to Domesday that we find him. He is a 

be had, can be had only by searching real man, and he may be likely enough 

through and comparing endless separate — local knowledge could settle the point 

documents, can be had in the days of King — the forefather of the later Leighions; 

William by a process almost as easy as only, in order to make the pedigree longer, 

looking out a word in a dictionary. The he has been moved to an earlier time than 

hatchet to the argument is in this case that to which he rightly belongs. Shrop- 

easily found. Ic is wonderful, how man v shire has among its lordships as entered 

and how stately fabrics of falsehood fall in Domesday both a Letcn and a Lectoa, 

away before the touch of the great record, one or other of which is doubtless the 

I open Sir Bernard Burke at a venture, Lelon or Leighton of the pedigree. 

and I light upon the following wonderful And, what is not very wonderful, Shrop- 

statements: — shire had also a Richard among its land- 

_..,,,., . owners. But the union of Richard and 

Totilus de Uton, whose name appear, in Leighton has produced a person who, as 

the Uomesday Book as a landed proprjelor v\ , " .1. *( n j '^- j 

the CO. Salop, was grandfather of f*"" " '^«.^E« ?' Domesday is concerned. 

Sir Titus de Leighton. Knight of the Sepul- " pureW imaginary. If the place meant 

chre, who, on his return from the Holy Land, "s the Leion of Domesday, that was held 

was a joint-founder of the abbey of Buildwas by Anschitil under Roger, Earl of Shrews- 

in Salop. His son, bury. If it l>e the Lectott of Domesday, 

Sir Richard de Leighton, Knight, led a re- that was held by Ralph of Morlemcr. As 

conveyance from William Fiw.alan, soon after far then as Domesday is concerned, Rich- 

the Conquest, of the manor of Leighion ; and afd might pass away along with Tolilua 

from him descended:- and Titus. Vet Richard of Leighton is a 

John Leighton Esquire of Stretton, who , ^ ^ ^ , » f ^ 

was thrice Hieh Sheriff of bhropshire in the , j ■. ? 'j j -.1 . 

reign of Edward the Fourth. place and has been provided with an im- 
possible f.illier and grandfather.* Those 

Sheriff John and those who come after documents with which the general histo- 

him are doubtless real people. It is not nan is bound to be familiar prove his 

worth while to search them out. But existence at some time not later than the 

Totilus and Titus are quite another kind reign of Edward the First, and thev prove 

of thing. When are they supposed to also that, though he was not a co-founder 

have lived ? How did they come bv their of Buildwas abbey, yet he was a benefac- 

strange names i* If Totilus was a landed tor of the house. His name is found twice 

proprietor in Domesday, how came his in the Buildwas documents in the Monas- 

grandsoa to be getting re -conveyances ticon {v. 357, 358), as himself mnking a 

Boon after tlie Conquest? Are Totilus gr^nt to the abbey and as witnessing the 

and Titus supposed to be Englishmen or grant of another benefactor. The docu- 

Normans? Nomenclature, commonly a menls come under an Inspeximiis al 1192, 

saje guide, here fails us, as Totilus and so that the persons mentioned cannot be 

Titus would certainly have h.id their later than that date; but on the other 

names all to themselves among the men hand, as Buildwas abbey was not founded 

of either nation. In short, Totilus, and till n3J, no one who had a conveyance 

Titus the Knight of Ihe Sepulchre, are soon after the Conquest could have been 

both so grotesquely absurd that it is hardly its founder or benefactor. We thus at 

worth while looking for their names in once get rid of the fiction, and we find our 

Domesday or its Index. Still it is well way to the small foundation of truth on 

to be able to sa^ that no such names are which it is piled up. Without any special 

there, and that in Shropshire, where they local knowledge, by evidence which every 
are quartered, there is not even any name 

which the most perverse transcriber could • n •„ poMihle ihai one might go (griher back than 

have turned into any such form. Hamp- Riehiid, ■'Robenm « AiKoidui de l«iom" ip. 

shire i,u» w/;;.,-ii,« i. of cou,.e £';j^'rHrEr;".'i;l,'!.",a'£9A'iJS 

a diminutive form of Tastie — and Essex decent. Bui ihey app«r, noi in Shropihiri bui io 

has a Totiui, a Laliniied shape of one of ""b"''*'" k^'"j^"*UtlXV"' ™i'iil'io^b^ w" 

our queer English names, Tottg. But no Jo«^°iS'm ™ i^dNdiS io™i thulT iD°hu j!^ 

such near approach as this can be found cm. 



72 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



student of English history mast be able to 
turn to, we can reform to some extent the 
mythical Leighton pedigree in Sir Bernard 
Burke's volume. We have got rid of To- 
ttlus, Titus, and the imaginary Richard, 
and we have found a real Richard instead. 
We have found that a Leighton family exist- 
ed in the thirteenth century. Some lord 
of Leighton, Norman or English as might 
happen, with a pedigree or without one as 
might happen, perhaps a descendant, per- 
haps not, of the Domesday possessor, had, 
at some time later than Henry the First 
but earlier than the latter years of Edward 
the First, taken, like crowds of other peo- 
ple, the name of his lordship as his sur- 
name. The Richard of Leighton of the 
Inspeximus may or may not have been 
the forefather 01 the sheriff. The general 
inquirer, with his evidence, can say noth- 
ing either way; the answer must come 
from the man of special local knowledge. 
But it is plain that, by the time of the 
sheriff, the family of Leighton had reached 
that degree of importance which injplied 
that they ought to have had Domesday 
forefathers. A pedigree was therefore 
invented; the real Richard was moved 
back to the times of the Conquest, and his 
benefaction to Buildwas abbey was en- 
larged into co-foundership. Titus and 
Totilus were added by an unlucky play of 
fancy. Local knowledge might possibly 
explain why such names were hit up>on, 
whether they are the corruption of any 
real names of persons or places. General 
history can only set them aside, as being, 
in the form in which they appear in the 
" Peerage and Baronetage," not only imagi- 
nary but impossible. But when the story 
had once been invented and often repeat- 
ed, it was naturally believed. To believe 
it would become a point of honor with the 
family and with its neighbors. Nor need 
we greatly blame those for believing it to 
whom it seemed fine to have a Titus and 
a Totilus among their forefathers. But 
what shall we say to the Ulster king-at- 
arms, who must have the means of know- 
ing better, but who reprints all this folly 
in a thirty-second edition which has gone 
through searching revision and extensive 
amendment? 

In this case it is by no means clear 
whether Totilus, Titus, and Richard are 
supposed to be of English or of Norman 
birth. The inventor of the legend was 
perhaps indifferent on that point. The 
inventors of other legends were more par- 
ticular ; they were commonly, as we have 
seen, anxious to make out that the patri- 
arch of the family had come in with the 



Conqueror. Let us take a remarkably 
unlucky shot. We are told that 

The Bedingfields deduce from the Con- 
quest The founder of the family, according 
to the pedigree in the History of Norfolk, 
was 

Ogerus de Puges, a Norman knight, and 
fellow-soldier of Duke William, who obtained, 
after the Conquest, the manor of Bedingfield, 
from which he assumed his surname. 

I am not deeply versed in county his- 
tories, because I have commonly found 
that, when there is anything which con- 
nects this or that place or this or that fam- 
ily with the general history of England, 
the local writer most commonly leaves it 
out altogether, or, if he mentions it at all, 
mentions it in a purely mythical shape. 
But in this case a pedigree nas been sent 
to me which I presume is the same as 
the "pedigree in the History of Norfolk." 
The pedigree, which starts with Oger, is 
patched up by a deed of which I have a 
copy before me, and which is plainly one 
of the class of deeds which were invented 
to make out a pedigree. Pedigree and 
deed together go down before the fact that 
there was no such person as OTtx de 
Puges, and that Bedingfield had quite 
another owner. There is no Bedingfield 
in Norfolk; but Bedingfield in Suffolk 
appears twice in Domesday, at p. 368 and 
p. 428^. In neither case is any one of the 
name of Oger set down as either past or 
present owner. On the other hand, there 
is a real Oger in Norfolk ; but he was not 
lord of Bedingfield or of anything else. 
If he was a Norman knight and a fellow- 
soldier of Duke William, either his ser- 
vices must have been very small, or his 
master must have been very niggardlv in 
rewarding them. The Oger of Norfolk, 
who is not distinguished as de Puges or by 
any other surname of any kind, held noth- 
ing in chief of the king, but held a small 
estate of two carucates under William of 
Warren. The place of this small posses- 
sion is Dudelingatuna — that is doubtless 
Didlington ; and Oger, whatever may have 
been his nationality, — the name, which 
survives in Odgcr^ is in Domesday Breton 
rather than either Norman or English, — 
seems to have been simply one of a num- 
ber of small owners who had held the 
land before the Conquest, and who went 
on holding it under the new lord. Next 
in the pedigree comes Sir Edmund Bed- 
ingfield, who died in 1446, and who is 
likely enough to have been a real man, as 
the Sir Henry Bedingfield of the next cen- 
tury undoubtedly was. Here again we 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



73 



have a family, of whatever origin, who, 
when they rose to importance, looked 
about for forefathers in the Conqueror's 
army, and made this unlucky guess about 
Oger. 

In most of these stories the great object 
was, as has been already said, to make out 
that the forefather of the family came in 
with William the Conqueror. That was 
the most striking and obvious proof of 
good birth. But alongside of this feeling 
there was another, a feeling for which 
Englishmen must have greater sympathy. 
On the principle that the longer the pedi- 
gree was the nobler it was, if it was some- 
thing to trace the family back to a com- 
panion of the Conqueror, it was something 
more to trace it back to those who were 
here before the Conqueror came. At- 
tempts of this kind may have sprung from 
the mere wish to make the family seem 
older. But a better feeling may have had 
a share in them. There may be in them 
some trace of real, sturdy, English feeling, 
which thought it after all a finer thing to 
be an Englishman than to be a French- 
man. But, whatever the motive may have 
been, it is certain that, in the case of a 
good many families, an attempt has been 
made to trace their pedi^jree up to times 
before the Conquest. These attempts to 
trace up to the conquered are not so many 
as the attempts to trace up to the con- 
querors ; still there are a fair stock of 
Uiem. In many cases the storv may actu- 
ally be true in a sense. That is, the fam- 
ily may really be descended from persons 
who did hold lands, perhaps even the same 
lands, before the Conquest. There is 
nothing impossible, nothing absurd, in the 
claim itself; only it is a claim which it 
must always be very hard to make out. 
And in the shape in which the claim is 
commonly put, it is absurd and impossi- 
ble. There is for instance a Devonshire 
rime which says that three families — I 
forget the names of the first two, but all 
begin with C, and the third is the well- 
known name of Coplestone* — were all 
at home when the Conqueror came. Now 

* I have since lighted on the other two names in a 
small paper on " Coplestone Cross and a Charter of 
Eadgar" by Mr. R. T. King, who, though a Devon- 
shire man, does not fear to upset Devonshire fables. 
The rime runs — 

*« Crocker. Cruwys, and Coplestone, 
When tne Conqueror came, were found at home." 

I cannot answer for Cruwys, whose name certainly has 
a British look. Crocker would seem to point to the 
trade of a forefather who had lien among the pots. 
But, if his descendants ever came to be lifted up on 
silver wings, the name would doubtless do as well as 
Plantagenet itself. Mr. King goes minutely into the 
n»sl history of Coplestone. 



it IS quite certain that Coplestone, or any- 
body else, must have had forefathers of 
some kind living in the year 1066. People 
who talk about old families sometimes 
forget the obvious fact that one family is 
reaSy as old as another. Every family 
had some forefathers at any given moment 
since the beginninoj of the world. The 
only difference is that the " old " family 
knows, or thinks that it knpws, who its 
forefathers were at a particular time. At 
any rate, as I just said, Coplestone or any- 
body else had forefathers in 1066 ; and, m 
the absence of proof to the contrary, those 
forefathers are more likely to have been 
English than either British or Norman. 
Further it is quite possible, though the 
case is certainly a rare one, that Cople- 
stone or anybody else might be able to 
prove who his forefathers who lived in 
1066 were, to prove that they were En- 
glishmen recorded in Domesday, and 
even to prove that he now holds the lands 
which they held. Such a claim is in no way 
absurd in itself ; the story is perfectly pos- 
sible; we only ask for the proof. Show 
us the proof; make out every step by 
authentic documents ; then we will be- 
lieve. Without such a proof we will not 
believe. But one thing cannot be proved, 
because it is impossible on the face of it. 
The forefather of Coplestone may have 
been at home in Coplestone's present 
quarters when the Conqueror came; but 
it is certain that Coplestone himself, by 
that name, John or Edward or Richard 
Coplestone, was not at home there at that 
time. What is commonly meant by these 
stories is that the land was held, not — 
what is perfectly possible — by a fore- 
father of those who afterwards bore the 
name of Coplestone, but — what is alto- 
gether impossible — by a forefather who 
himself bore the name of Coplestone. 
Those who invented these stories, and 
those who believe them, forget that, in the 
times before the Conquest, there were no 
hereditary surnames. ** Edward at Cople- 
stone " is a perfectly possible personal 
description of a man at any time ; but Ed- 
ward Coplestone or Edward de Cople- 
stone, as the hereditary surname of a 
family, is utterly impossible before the 
Norman Conquest. It is not even likely 
to be found in any family under the high- 
est nobility till at least two or three gener- 
ations after the Norman Conquest. This 
plain fact at once upsets all these stories 
in the shape which they commonly take. 
It does not disprove the bare statement 
that a man is descended from one who 
held lands before 1066. But it does upset 



74 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



all stones which represent a familv as 
such, with a hereditary surname, as hold- 
ing lands before the Norman Conquest. 
The tale would grow in this way. If a 
man could prove, or if he believed on 
some ground less than absolute proof, or 
if he simply wished to believe witliout any 
ground at all, that he could trace up his 
descent to those who held his land before 
the Conquest, he would most likely not 
know that surnames were unknown in 
those days, and he would assume that his 
remote forefather must have borne the 
same surname as himself. In some of 
these cases then the story may really be 
true in substance, thougli false in form. 
It may be true, even though it cannot be 
proved to be true, even in substance. 
Tradition, in such a case as this, would 
count for something more than it counts 
for in the tales which trace pedigrees up 
to companions of the Conqueror. But 
most of the stories of this kind can be up- 
set on other grounds. Domesday upsets 
a great many without going any further. 
Others contain historical statements which 
are wrong, and often impossible. And in 
many cases the process has been simply 
this. A man bears as his surname one of 
the ancient English names which have 

fone out of use as Christian names. He 
nds in early English history some one 
who bears that name as a Christian name. 
He first mistakes the Christian name for a 
surname, and fancies that the ancient 
worthy bore the same surname, perhaps 
an unusual one, as himself. Having got 
thus far, it would be almost impossible for 
any man to keep himself back from the 
next step, to refrain from clainfiing the an- 
cient worthy as a forefather. 

A most grotesque instance of this kind 
is found only a few pages on after the pedi- 

?ree of Leighton. But the myth of 
.eighton is fairly beaten by the myth of 
Levinge. There is a kina of perverse 
simplicity about this last legend which 
makes it specially charming. Here it fol- 
lows : — 

The family of Levinge is one of great an- 
tiquity, and traces back its pedigree to Saxon 
times.' The Archbishop ot Canterbury who 
crowned Canute was Leovingus, and, in 1803 
[sic], another Livingus was Bishop of Worces- 
ter. At the Domesday survey, it is stated 
that the nephew of the last-named prelate 
held six lordships in Derbyshire and two in 
Notts. 

Passing down to a modern epoch, we come 
to 

Thomas Levinge, Esq. of Baddesley Ensore, 



CO. Warwick, living in 1434, who was an- 
cestor of 

Thomas Levinge, Esa. (elder brother of 
Mr. Serjeant Levmgc, M.P. and recorder of 
Derby icm/^, James I.), who purchased the 
manor of Parwick, co. Derby, 1561. 

Now we may be sure that the serjeant-at- 
law and the purchaser of the manor of 
Parwick are perfectly well-ascertained 
men. Nor is there any particular reason 
to boggle at the esquire of two centuries 
earlier, though the gap between the two 
Thomases is certainly a little suspicious. 
Here again local knowledge would doubt- 
less easily solve the question one way or 
the other. But we may be quite sure that 
the Thomas of the fifteenth century is the 
earliest Levinge of whom anything is 
known. Otherwise the pedigree-maker 
would never have hit on such a rash ex- 
pedient as laying violent hands on the two 
eleventh-century bishops. Both are real 
and well-known men ; the second is one 
of the worthies of English history, the 
patriot prelate who stood by Godwine, as 
his successor Walter of Cantelupe stood 
by Simon. Only what is there to con- 
nect them with the house of Levinge 
rather than with the house of Snooks?" 
Simply that the hapless pedigree-maker, 
in his ignorance of the ways of the 
eleventh century, took their Christian name 
for a surname. There is exactly as 
much sense to connect the modern family 
of Levinge with either of those bishops 
as there is to connect any family called 
Edwards or Edmunds with any of the 
kings who bore their names. Only Ed- 
ward and Edmund are still names in com- 
mon use, and it does not occur to every 
man who bears either of these as a sur- 
name to think that he must come of the 
stock of Eadward the Unconquered or 
Eadmund the Doer-of-great-deeds. But 
Leofing, Lyfing, Living — the spellings are 
of course endless — never was a common 
Christian name at any time, and it has 
gone out of use for ages. The pedigree- 
maker therefore did not understand that 
it was a Christian name at all. He 
thought that Bishop Lyfing was the same 
formula as Bishop Smith or Bishop 
Brown, not the same formula as Bishop 
John or Bishop Peter. He thought that 
two bishops of the same name must be of 
the same family, and that the modem 
bearer of the same name must be of the 
same family too. And the thing becomes 
all the funnier, because, after all, there is 
a certain faint likelihood that it may be 
true. The use of an uncommon Christian 
name by two persons about the same timCi 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



7S 



though no proof, is a certain faint pre- 
sumption, of kindred betv/een them. It 
is just enough to make us think of looking 
to see whether there was any kindred. 
Again, the first man who bore the name 
Leofing — in any of its forms — as a sur- 
name must have been the son of a man 
■who bore it as a Christian name. And the 
name is more likely to have kept in use 
among the kinsfolk of those who bore it 
in earlier times, especially among the 
kinsfolk of a man so famous as the Bishop 
of Worcester in Devonshire and Corn- 
wall. There is then just this amount of 
likelihood in the story, just this amount of 
likelihood to connect Squire Levinge in 
the fifteenth century with Bishop Lyfing 
in the eleventh. But we may be quite 
sure this is not what the pedigree-maker 
had in his head. He was not thinking of 
a faint likelihood in the form of a Chris- 
tian name; he thought that he had got 
proof positive in the form of a surname. 
He was, we may suspect, a contemporary 
of the serjeant-at-law and the second 
Squire Thomas. In the days of the first 
Squire Thomas, people were not likely to 
be thinking of establishing kindred with 
bishops of the days of Cnut. 

As for the nephew of Bishop Lyfing 
who at the time of the Domesday Sur- 
vey held six lordships in Derbyshire and 
two in Notts, it is too much to expect that 
any one should read through all the en- 
tries in those two shires to see whether 
anybody can be found bearing any such 
description. Those who expect their 
statements to be verified should put them 
in such a shape that they may be verified 
without needless trouble. They should 
give us either the names of the lordships 
or the name of the bishop's nephew. I 
can only say that 1 do not remember any 
person so described, and that none such is 
to be found in the Index. If, as one is 
tempted to suspect, the nephew of Bishop 
Lyfing was supposed to bear his uncle's 
name, such an one is certainly not to be 
found. 

Another point here suggests itself. 
Why did the pedigree-maker provide 
Bishop Lyfing only with a nephew ? Why 
did he not give him a son ? Clearly be- 
cause, for several centuries, no bishop 
could have ventured to acknowledge a 
son. But this was not the feeling of 
Lyfing's age or of the age next after him. 
Tnere is no evidence that Lyfing himself 
was married; but several bishops of his 
time were, and it is perfectly possible that 
Lyfing may have left legitimate posterity. 
But the pedigree-maker did not know this ; 



he accordingly framed his story according 
to the ideas of ages with which he was 
more familiar. 

After all, absurd as it is in itself to mis- 
take the Christian name for a surname and 
to build a pedigree on the mistake, still 
the pedigree-maker erred in good com- 
pany. It is not at all clear whether the 
"young Si ward" of Shakespeare means 
Siward's own son Osbeorn or his sister's 
son Siward. But it looks very much as if 
Shakespeare took Siward for a surname, 
and thought that the son of old Siward 
must be "young Siward." In the case of 
Macbeth, he certainly did so; otherwise 
that much calumniated woman Gruach 
Queen of Scots, who appears in real his- 
tory simply as a benefactress of certain 
churches, could never have been turned 
into Lady Macbeth. In the ears of a con- 
temporary, for Gruach to be called Lady 
Macbeth would have sounded as odd as 
for Gytha to be called Lady Godwine. 
But I am not at all clear that there are not 
people who would call her so. I cannot 
say that I have seen it with my own eyes, 
but I have been told by a trustworthy 
person, that there is a book in which the 
son of Godwine and Gytha appears as 
"Harold, Eari Godwin." The sainted 
queen of Scots, not Gruach, is not uncom- 
monly spoken of as " Margaret Alheling," 
as if iEtheling were the surname of the 
family. 

In all these stories the pedigree-maker's 
power of invention did not go beyond 
mere invention of names, or the putting of 
real names in their wrong places. But 
there are pedigrees which take a much 
more daring flight, and which bring in 
large pieces of professed history which 
are nothing in the world but sheer inven- 
tion. Take for instance the pedigree of 
the house of Stourton : — 

This noble family, which derives its sur- 
name from the town of Stourton, co. Wilts, 
was of considerable rank antecedently to the 
Conquest ; for we find at that period one of 
its members, Botolph Stourton, the most active 
in gallantly disputing every inch of ground 
with the foreigner, and finally obtaining from 
the duke his own terms. Having broken 
down the sea-walls of the Severn, and guarded 
the passes by land, Botolph entered Glaston- 
bury when that victorious Norman had made 
his appearance in the West ; and, thus pro- 
tected, compelled William to grant whatso- 
ever he demanded. From this patriotic and 
gallant soldier lineally descended 

such and such people without dates, till 
we come to a John de Stourton, who is 
placed in the time of Edward the Third, 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



76 

and ^ho is likely enough to be a real 
inan. 

Now if we did not know that a pedigree- 
maker will do anything, it would really be 
past belief that anybcSy could have ven- 
tured on such monstrous fiction as this. 
It would have been more respectable to 
trace the house of Stourton to Jack the 
Giant-Killer or Jack and the bean-stalk, 
for they have at least a received legendary 
being, while Botolph Stourton and his 
exploits are invented of set purpose to 
swell the supposed credit of a family whose 
real beginnings seem to be in the four- 
teenth century. Here again we see the 
delusion of the surname. It was supposed 
that there could be before the Conquest a 
family of Stourton, one of whom was called 
Botolph, as another perhaps might be 
called John or Thomas. But the whole 
thing is fiction. There is nothing of the 
kind anywhere in history or in legend. 
We have a Gesta Herewardi^ mythical 
enough to be sure in part ; but we have no 
Gesta BotolphL Yet the exploits of Bo- 
tolph greatly surpass the exploits of Here- 
ward. But within the mass of legend 
which has grown around the name of 
Hereward there is a kernel of truth in his 
story. Domesday knows him ; the Chron- 
icles know him, but Botolph Stourton or 
any other Botolph is not to be found there. 
If William granted to Botolph whatever 
he demanded, it was clearly not land that 
he demanded, least of all the lands of 
Stourton. At page 72 of Domesday we 
find Stourton in Wiltshire plainly enough ; 
but its lord is not any Botolph ; its actual 
holder is not any Botolph ; its former 
owner is not any Botolph. Of the two 
lordships in Wiltshire held by Walscin of 
Douay, one of them has the fatal entry : 
^^ Radulfus tenet de W, Stortone, Aluu- 
acre temiit T.R.E,^^ So Botolph Stourton 
vanishes from Stourton, and he equally 
vanishes from every other spot ; for not a 
man of the name appears in Domesday as 
holding or having held a rood of land any- 
where. The tale is sheer invention ; it is 
mere falsehood, which might at any time 
be confuted by the simple process of turn- 
ing to Domesday. Yet even here we may 
mark how the true history has some influ- 
ence even on the wildest tales. The in- 
ventor of the story had most likely heard 
or read that William really met with no 
small resistance in the west, just as in 
the north, long after south-eastern England 
was conquered. He had heard something 
of the sieges of Exeter and Montacute, 
and he thought that it would be fine to 
connect the lamily whose praises he was 



singing with a warfare so honorable to the 
western lands. With a little pains, a little 
study of Domesday and the authentic his- 
tory, he might have put together a story 
which, if not true, might nave been at 
least possible. But he set to work with- 
out a thought of bringing his tale into har- 
mony with the great record from which 
there is no appeal. When the pedigree 
was invented, Domesday was doubtless 
still in manuscript ; but is it possible that 
there is no copy of those precious volumes 
in the library of the Ulster king-at-arms ? 

In the last specimen we have seen the 
pedigree-maker try his hand at history; 
sometimes he makes a dash at etymology. 
Let us take the following from the pedi- 
gree of the Earl oP Dysarl : — 

The very ancient family of Tollemache 
claims Saxon descent, and the name is said to 
be a corruption of the word " tollmack," toll- 
ing of the bell ; the Tollemaches having flour- 
ished with the greatest honor, in the co. of 
Suffolk, since the first arrival of the Saxons in 
England, a period of more than thirteen cen- 
turies. 

Tollemache, Lord of Bentley, in Suffolk, 
and Stoke-Tollemache, co. Oxford, lived in 
the ninth century; and upon the old manor- 
house at Bentley appeared the following in- 
scription : — 

Before the Normans into England came, 

Bentley was my seat, and Tollemache was my name. 

This whole account is somewhat remark- 
able on the j[ace of it. In what language 
" tollmack " means " tolling of the bell " is 
not explained. Nor is it easy to see the 
connection of cause and effect between 
tolling of the bell and flourishing with the 
greatest honor since the first arrival of the 
Saxons in England. Again, if by " the 
first arrival of the Saxons in England " is 
meant the first settlement of the Saxons 
in Britain, it is cruel, especially when a 
pedigree is concerned, to cut down the 
date of the settlement, and therefore of 
the pedigree, from fourteen centuries to 
thirteen. On the other hand, it is not at 
all clear how the first Saxon settlement in 
Sussex could have led to anybody flour- 
ishing in Suffolk. The only chance is 
that the house of Tollemache may have 
been one of those small unrecorded An- 
glian tribes which seem to have come over 
one by one, and to have grown into the 
South-Folk and North-Folk of East An- 
glia. Then again, as Sir Bernard Burke 
tells the story, it would almost seem as if 
the Tollemache of the ninth century had 
been possessed of a prophetic spirit in 
two ways. He knew that the Normans 
would come some time ; so be made it bis 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



n 



business to write up in advance that he 
was at Bentley before they came. And, 
that he might be quite sure of being un- 
derstood in ages that were to come, he 
wrote his verses in a form of English 
which certainly could not have been under- 
stood by any man of his own age. It is 
needless to say that all this flourishing 
and bell-tolling is pure fiction. It so haj> 
pens that something can be made out 
about the history of Bentley, not quite so 
early as the arrival of the Saxons, b\it as 
far back as the reign of Eadgar. There 
are places of the name in Hampshire, 
Warwickshire, and Worcestershire, as 
well as in Suffolk. But it is to the Suffolk 
Bentley that Kemble refers the will printed 
in Codex DiplomAticus, iv. 287. There 
a lady named Leofgifu leaves land at 
Bentley to iClfward, Bishop of London, 
thus fixing the date to the reign of Edward 
the Confessor. She had a steward at 
Bentley of the name of ^Elfwig. In the 
two earlier documents, one of Eadgar's 
reign and the other of Cnut's (Codex Dip- 
lomaticus, vi. 37, 176), I do not know 
whether the Bentley spoken of is Bentley 
in Suffolk or not Either local knowledge 
or a searching examination of the signa- 
tures would doubtless settle the point; but 
it is hardly worth while, as, among the 
many persons mentioned in them, there 
is no one who can by any kind of shift be 
twisted into a Tollemacne tolling a bell. 
Bentley in Suffolk is mentioned three 
times in Domesday, ii. 287, 287^, 295^. 
It passed through theliands of such well- 
known people as Earl Gyrth and Ralph 
the Staller ; but alas ! there is no sign of 
Tollemache, of his bell or of his verses. 

From this purely imaginary being in the 
ninth century the pedigree leaps, without 
any intermediate steps, to a real man : — 

Hugh de Tollemache subscribed the charter 
sans date (about the reign of King Stephen), 
made by John de St. John to Eve, the first 
abbess of Godstow, in Oxfordshire. 

Now Hugo Talmashe ^ nearly the same 
spelling of the name which is to be found 
in Macaulay — does appear as a witness to 
a charter of John of St. John in favor of 
Godstow in the Monasticon, iv. 363. But, 
as a pedigree-maker must bring in some- 
thing grotesque at every stage, the abbess 
Ediiha or Ediva, in modern form Edith, is 
cut short into Eve, Hugo Talemasche 
appears again in company with John of 
St. John in the Pipe-roll of Henry the 
First, p. 3. I cannot explain the name. 
As it has no de, it would seem not to be a 
local name. In the time of Henry the 



First the name Hugh is still a very strong 
presumption of Norman descent, though 
it is no longer the absolute proof which it 
is in the time of Domesday. No one ap- 
pears in Domesday by the name of Tolle- 
mache in any form; but there is a Hugh 
who holds lands at Stoke in Oxfordshire, 
partly of Walter Giffard, partly of Roger 
of Ivry. He may well be either the Hugh 
of the Pipe-roll and of the Godstow char- 
ter, or his father. More than this, the 
whole Gloucester part of Hughes history, 
all about his wife and his son, seems to be 
quite trustworthy. And we again in the 
Gloucester cartulary (i. 331) find the gifts 
of Hugh Talamasche confirmed by Thomas 
of St. John. We may therefore strike out 
from the Tollemache pedigree everything 
before Hugh, and professed genealogists 
and local antiquaries may find out the 
exact nature of the relation between Hugh 
and the house of St. John. These last 
are real people, though one would like to 
know the authority for the statement that 
" William de St. John came into England 
with the Conqueror, as grand master of 
the artillery, and supervisor of the wagons 
and carriages." 

Thus far we have had to deal with fic- 
tions against which we have nothing to say 
but that they are fictions; they show no 
further perversion of the moral sense. If 
Tollemache had tolled a bell in the ninth 
century, the act would at least have been 
harmless ; and if Botolph Stourton had 
withstood the Conqueror in the valiant way 
which the legend speaks of, it would have 
been greatly to his honor. But it is hard 
to understand why any man should have 
gone out of his way, first of all to invent 
imaginary forefathers for himself, and then, 
when he had invented them, to take away 
their characters. When one is inventing 
falsehoods about a family, it is as easy to 
invent falsehoods to its' credit as false- 
hoods to its dishonor. Whoever invented 
the pedigree of Earl Fitzwilliam was of 
another way of thinking. He had the 
strange fancy of wishing to be descended 
from a traitor. We there read : — 

Sir William Fitz-Godrick, cousin to King 
Edward the Confessor, left a son and heir, 

Sir William Fitzwilliam, who being am- 
bassador at the court of William Duke of 
Normandy, attended that prince in his victo- 
rious expedition against England, as marshal 
of the army A.D. 1066 : and for his valor at the 
battle of Hastings the Conqueror presented 
him with a scarf from his own arm. This Sir 
William was father of 

Sir William Fitzwilliam, Knight, who mar- 
ried Eleanor, daughter and heir of Sir John 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



78 

Elmley, of Elmlev and Sprotburgh, which 
lordships continued with the Fitzwilliams until 
the reign pf Henry VIII., when they verc 
carried, by coheirs, to Suthill and Copley. 

It is perhaps needless to say that all 
this is a pure fable ; but one really stands 
aghast at the utterly shameless nature of 
the fable. Sir William Fitzwilliam is sup- 
posed to be an English ambassador at the 
court of Normandy. The inventor of the 
fable had so little Knowledge as not to see 
that the Sir, the first William, the Fitz, and 
the second William, was, each of them by 
itself, as much proof as could be needed 
that a man of whose name they formed 
any part could not have been an English- 
man of the days of Eadward the Confessor. 
Furthermore it would seem that the in- 
ventor thought it honorable for an ambas- 
sador sent to a foreign prince to join that 
prince in an invasion 01 his own country, 
and to bear arms in battle against his own 
sovereign. As for the scarf from Wil- 
liam's own arm, we need hardly look in 
the Baycux tapestry to prove that the 
duke who knew so well how to wield his 
mace of iron did not cumber his arms with 
any frippery of scarves on the day of the 
great battle. 

It is almost refining too much ; but it is 
worth while to mark that this imaginary 
traitor is described as the grandson of 
Godric. The choice of the name is lucky ; 
there was a traitor Godric in the fight at 
Maldon, and his doings are set forth in 
the song which records that fight Those 
who like traitors for their forefathers may, 
if they think good, make choice of him. 

Can there be a wilder fable than this ? 
Yes ; there is one a good deal wilder, 
which Sir Bernard Burke repeats without a 
shadow of doubt, in the pedigree of Ber- 
tie Earl of Lindsey. This astonishing 
house, whose name " in olden deeds " 
seems to be spelled in many ways — as is 
also the case "in olden deeds " with the 
name of Smith, Brown, or any other — 
" were a very ancient house, deriving de- 
scent from a family of free barons of 
Bertisland in Prussia." For some centu- 
ries past a Frcihcrr von Bertisland would 
not be an impossible being ; but in what 
age of the world would any one guess that 
these free barons lived who were the fore- 
fathers of Bertie of Kent? "They first 
landed in England in company with the 
Saxons." Mark the dignity 01 the race. 
The Bcrties, it would seem, were alto- 
gether on a level with their companions 
the Saxons, and they must have quite 
overshadowed the Angles and Jutes. 
Shame on the chroniclers, shame on the 



earliest poets whose songs have been pre- 
served to us by Henry of Huntingdon, who 
are so full of the deeds of the Saxons on 
their first landing, but who, from some 
mean jealousy, have left out all mention of 
the Berties. Mark too the unexpected 
element in our national being; the Prus- 
sian race, extinct in its own land, still 
flourishes among us in Kent and in Lincoln- 
shire. Unhappily however from the fifth 
century to the eleventh we have no men- 
tion of this remarkable stock. It even 
may be that, in the course of those ages, 
they dropped the venerable speech of their 
own land, and took up with the vastly 
younger dialects of Angles and Saxons. 
In the eleventh century however the Prus- 
sian stock put forth a remarkable shoot in 
the form of Leopold Bertie. The student 
of nomenclature might amuse himself by 
the question whether Leopold Bertie or 
Bill Snooks would be the more impossi- 
sible forefather at the time. By the 
eleventh century however the Berties, 
whether they remembered their Prussian 
or not, had learned a little French, per- 
haps from the Lady Emma or some one in 
her train. By some astounding forestall- 
ing of language, fortification, and every- 
thing else, this Leopold Bertie in the time 
of iEthelred was not only " Constable of 
Dover Castle," but had a private c istle at 
" Berliested, now Bersted." (The old 
form of Bersted happens to be Ber* 
hamstede^ but of course that does not mat- 
ter.) Leopold then fell into a violent dis- 
pute with a body* of men described as 
" the Augustine monks of Canterbury." 
This formula may point to some confusion 
in the mind of the pedigree-maker between 
the abbey of Saint Augustine and Austin 
canons or Austin friars. The dispute is 
about tithes; the Augustine monks en- 
deavor to enforce their demands by force 
of arms ; a fray ensues, in which Leopold's 
son is slain. " The king giving Leopold 
no satisfaction, he solicited Sweyn, king 
of the Danes, and induced him to invade 
England." Then "the Danes join Leo- 
pold's forces in Kent;" the siege of 
Canterbury and the captivity of yClfheah 
follow. On the death of Sweyn, " Bur- 
bach Bertie, the only surviving son of 
Leopold, conscious of his father's actions, 
fices to France." A descendant comes 
back in the twelfth century and recovers 
Bersted. In the time of Henry the Fifth, 
" Hieronimus Bertie" is excommunicated 
for trying to kill a monk who **in a ser- 
mon uttered assertions injurious to his 
ancestor Leopold." He undergoes great 
penances, one of them being of a most 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 79 

singular kind. Besides paying two thou- who seemingly lived in the sixteenth cen- 

sand crowns of gold — how boundless turv. 

must have been the wealth of Bersted in A good many odd questions are here 

the fifteenth century I — "to the monas- started. The reference to Brompton^ 

tery of the monk whom he had assailed," so called — proves to be one of those 

" he further, in proof of his repentance, ridiculous French riming lists of names, 

rebuilt at his own expense the north part which pedigree-makers so greatly respect, 

of the temple belonging to the same mon- and of which historians think so little, 

astery, and his armorial bearings, three But one would really like to know who 

battering-rams and a shattered castle, were the antiquaries were who took for granted 

placed there on one of the pi/Uws,** It is that there were some persons who, " being 

said that the monks of Saint Alban's, be- weary of Harold's rule fled into Normandy 

ing straitened for room in the dormitory, and invited Duke William." One might 

once made up a dozen beds in the rood- have thought that the nine months of little 

loft. Perhaps some strange chance of the stillness were ' hardly long enough to 

same kind may account for the presence bring about much weariness of Harold's 

of pillows in the north part of this rays- rule. And surely, if there had been such 

terious '* temple." people, it would hardly have been left for 

On the whole, this is perhaps the most the antiquaries of the Wake family to 

monstrous of all our fictions. Tollemache find out their existence. We could hardly 

and his bell are fairly beaten. He cannot expect the Peterborough Chronicler to be 

compare with the free barons who came very full on the subject ; but we may be 

from Prussia in company with the Saxons, sure that, if such people had been heard 

But how strange the choice of forefathers 1 of in the eleventh century, William of 

Where a man might, with so little trouble, Poitiers would have been delighted to tell 

have made himself out to be the descend- us something about them. And who is 

ant of one of the heroes of Maldon or Augustine ? As it can hardly be either of 

Assandun, why invent a traitor? Or, if a the saints of that name, we can only guess 

traitor was wanted, why not at once fasten that it may be a familiar way of speaking 

the parentage upon Eadric ? of Augustine Thierry. Then what is the 

In these stories there seems to be a historical novel ? Does it mean that writ- 
deliberate preference for traitors; in an- ten by the late Mr. Kingsley? Or is it 
other we find a sublime indifference the earlier Latin novel headed " Ges/a 
between an imaginary traitor and a real Herewardi Saxonis " ? Or is it the 
hero. This is to be seen in the pedigree false Ingulf himself? Then again, if the 
of the familv of Wake. It stands thus in abbe;^ of Brun was founded by a man who 
Sir Bemarcf Burke : — died in 1 156, it is hard to understand how 

it could have been defended by Hereward 

The Wakes are mentioned by Brompton as ^^out ninety years earlier. The history 

in the immediate train of the Conqueror ; but ^} Bourne priory is rather scanty; but it 

it is the opinion of antiquaries that the indi- does appear from the documents in the 

vidual of the name of Wake recorded in the Monaslicon that its founder, Baldwin 

roll of Battle Abbey, was one of those who, Fitz-Gilbert, had a daughter who figures 

being weary of Harold^s rule, fled into Nor- as ** Emma Wac," and her husband and 

mandy, and invited Duke William ; hence the son as Hugh and Baldwin Wac ; and with- 

family is supposed to have been of importance out searching into pedigrees, everybody 

prior 10 the Conquest. The celebrated Arch- ^^^^^ ^j^^^ ^^^ „^^^ ^^ %^^^^ ^^^/ ^^^^ 

\^X^^:^XX^^^^^^^ ^"^ there ap,.ar in English historj^ So 

to Hereward le Wake the feat of having sue- ^e may vvell believe that it is possible to 

cessfully opposed and finally made terms with trace the descent of the Wake family up to 

William the Conqueror. As Augustine also this Hugh and Emma. These are matters 

mentions Wakes in Normandy, it is probable primarily for the genealogist; they only 

that there were two parties in the family at secondarily touch the historian. But it 

that time. An historical novel has been does very directly touch the historian, 

written on the feats of Hereward, in harass- when pedigree-makers not only lay their 

ing the Normans and defending the abbey of h^nds on one* of our national heroes in 

Brun after the Conquest. His tomb is still, j^^^^ ^^ Hereward, but when they further 

L- "^Tnshire" From"" """""^ ^"" ''^°' '" g° °" ^^^"^^y ^^ ^^^"'"^ ^^^'-^^ ^i'^''-^"^ ^^^* 

BaMwin Lord Wake, founder of the abbey invited into England by English traitors, 

of Brun, who died 1 1 56, descended, through a The odd thing is that, to Sir Bernard 

long line of eminent ancestors, Richard Wake, Burke or to those who sent him the Wake 

Esq.— story, a traitor and a hero seem to be ex* 



So PEDIGREES AND P£DIGREE-MAKER$« 

actly the same. Whether a man fought invented an " early progenitor " who is 

for England or betrayed England, it is all thus described : — 
one. In either case he was a forefather . ., . ^ 

a long while ago who did something ; and ^ Bertram Ashbumham, a Baron of Kent, ww 

a forefather a long while ago who did Constable of Dover Castle, a. d. 1066 ; which 

»rx»«^»k:r.,* .»u<^*u<.^...u^f u* AiA ,.>^e rt^r^A Bcrtnim was beheaded by William the Con- 
something, whether what he did was good ^^^^ ^^ ^.^ so valiantly defend the 

or bad, IS commonly quite enougjh to sat- ^^^ .^^ ^y^^ j^^^^ ^£ Normandy, 
isfy family vanity. But those with whom 

family vanity goes for nothing, but with Here again we have pure fiction, and im- 
whom the honor of their country and the possible fiction. Bertram Ashburnham, 
truth of its history goes for much, will not oaron and constable, proves his imagi- 
lightly forgive the base siander on the nary character by every word of his 
Englishmen of the eleventh century which description. Dover Castle was not val- 
is implied in this trumpery piece of genea- iantly defended by any one against the 
logical fiction. Nor can the historian calmly Duke of Normandy, and most assuredly 
look on while Here ward becomes the sport William the Great never beheaded any 
of pedigree-makers. His authentic history man for defending any place valiantly 
is short, but he has an authentic history, against him. The slander on the Con- 
It is to be looked for not in Broughton, queror may well raise our indignation, 
not in historical novels old or new, not But the Ashburnham fable is at least 
in " Augustine," whether Thierry or any better than the Fitzwilliam fable. The 
other, not even in the family history by crime is imaginary; but it is at least 
Archbishop Wake, but in the few unerr- understood to be a crime, and it is at- 
ing notices in Domesday and the Chroni- tributed to a stranger and not to a coun* 
cles. Casting pedigrees and legends tryman. 

aside. Here ward remains as the man From all these people who so freely 

whose heart failed him not when all other devise for themselves imaginary and im- 

men's hearts failed them, as the man possible forefathers, we turn to a yet more 

whom the English Chronicle speaks of in amazing class, those who seem anxious to 

the same formulae by which it speaks of get rid of real forefathers to whom they 

iClfred. But as for connecting him with have a thorough right. A pedigree of 

the family of Wake or any other existing this kind is that of Lord Sudeley. As 

family, there is not a scrap of evidence given by Sir Bernard Burke, the pedigree 

for it. With regard to Wakes the only begins with " John de Sudeley, Lord of 

point is that, though the surname of /<f Sudeley and Toddington, A.D. 1140." It 

IVake is not given to Hereward in any is no business of mine to test the accu- 

authentic writing, it is given him in writ- racy of the steps by which the pedigree is 

ings which are not 01 yesterday. This traced up to John of Sudeley. All that 

may or may not point to an early claim of concerns me is the fact that, if it can be 

the Wake family to descend from him. In traced up to John of Sudeley, it can be 

DO case does it prove such descent. Still traced up a great deal further. It can be 

those who gave him the name must have traced, not among everyday people, but 

been led to give him the name for some among the great ones of the earth on both 

cause or other, and one would like to sides of the sea. John of Sudeley might 

know what that cause was. boast of fathers who were princes, and of 

After these astounding performances, grandmothers through whom he might 

which it would be hard for any pedigree- trace up to Woden himself. John of 

maker to outdo, pedigrees some of which Sudeley was son of Harold of Ewias, who 

seem to pick out a traitor by choice, while was son of Ralph Earl of Hereford, who 

others seem to be sublimely indifferent was son of Drogo Count of Mantes and 

between a traitor and a hero, there is a of Godgifu daughter of King i^thelred 

certain comfort in turning to another fable, and his queen Emma. Let French an- 

equally groundless, but which shows a tiquaries trace back the descent of the 

better moral sense in those who invented house of Mantes. But many pedigrees 

it. This is the fable which is quoted to are allowed to go through grandmothers, 

prove ** the stupendous anttqliity " of the and in this case the grandmothers take 

family of Ashburnham. Sir Bernard the pedigree up to Rolf and Cerdic. 

Burke gives two pedigrees of Ashburn- Every step of this magnificent descent 

ham in the " Peerage and Baronetage," and is absolutely certain ; yet Sir Bernard 

they both seem to go back to the sixteenth, Burke, or those from whom he got his 

or perhaps the fifteenth century. This story, puts John of Sudeley at the begin- 

was not long enough ago ; so somebody ning of the tree, as if he had come of him* 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



8x 



self, as if he had had no right to trace up 
to counts, dukes, kings, heroes, the gods 
of Asgard themselves. Can the cause of 
the omission be because Ralph of Here- 
ford ran away from the Welshmen ? To 
have described him as beating the Welsh- 
men, instead of running away from them, 
would have been so small a liberty com- 
pared with the liberties which pedigree- 
makers take everyday that it might almost 
have been forgiven. 

Take another pedigree, that of Berkeley. 
This is one to the early stages of which 
my own work has led me to give some 
attention. I trust that I have shown* 
that there is every probability that Robert 
Fitz-Harding, the patriarch of the House 
of Berkeleyj was son of a Harding whose 
name often occurs in Domesday and else- 
where, and grandson of Eadnoth the 
Staller, a man who, whether it be thought 
to his credit or otherwise, having been a 
great officer under Edward and Harold, 
passed after the Conquest into the service 
of William. Eadnoth and Harding are 
perfectly well-ascertained men, and there 
IS no other Harding to whom we can so 
readily assign the otherwise unknown 
parentage of Robert Fitz-Harding. But 
while other people have been so anxious 
to devise for themselves imaginary En- 
glish forefathers, the Berkeleys seem anx- 
ious to get rid of their real English fore- 
fathers. By Sir Bernard Burke all that we 
are told of the father of Robert Fitz-Hard- 
ing, in other words of Harding, is that he 
was one of the companions of William the 
Conqueror. This is pure fiction ; no such 
Harding can be found ; still it is some- 
thing for Sir Bernard Burke to have fore- 
borne to put in some of the grosser absur- 
dities of the local antiquaries. Those 
who call Harding " Mayor of Bristol " say 
what is in one sense likely enough, though 
I do not know that there is any proof, 
and I cannot say off-hand whether Bristol 
had a mayor so early. But the favorite 
thing is to call him a son of " the King of 
Denmark." Sometimes he is mayor of 
Bristol, follower of the Conqueror, and 
son of the king of Denmark, all at 
once. It is amusing to ask a Glou- 
cestershire antiquary what king of Den- 
mark he means. You soon find that one 
king of Denmark is the same to him as 
another. The grotesque absurdity of Wil- 
liam being accompanied by a son of the 
only possible king of Denmark, Sven 
Estrithsson, the cousin and ally of Harold, 
never comes into their heads. 

• See History of the Norman Conquest, iv., pp. 755, 
f$%. Ld. 3. 

LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 942 



Take again another case where a real 
pedigree is not made the most of. The 
pedigree of D'Oyly is traced up in Sir 
Bernard Burke, though with a good many 
gaps, to the founder of Oxford Castle. 
Robert of Oily or Ouilly, and his nephew 
of the same name, are men of the first 
im[X)rtance in the local history of Oxford. 
Themselves, their wives, their sons and 
stepsons, the castle, the abbey, the 
churches, the bridges, of their making, 
stand out very prominently for several 
generations. And men who are of this 
first-rate importance in local history do not 
fail to be of some importance in general 
history. But the pedigree does not bring 
in either the elder or the younger Robert 
by name. Their particular doings all 
seem to go to the general credit of "the 
family." The entry stands thus : — 

This family, one of great eminence both in 
England and France, came to England at the 
period of the Conquest, and obtained the 
dignity of feudal Baron of Hocknorton, in 
Oxfordshire, and hereditary constable of Ox- 
ford Castle (anno 1067), from William the 
Conqueror. 

Hence the pedigree runs ahoutper saltum 
to people in the thirteenth, fifteenth, and 
sixteenth centuries. 

One does not see why Ouilly should be 
moved from Normandy into France. Nor 
does one see why, of all the endless pos- 
sessions of Robert of Ouillv, Hocknorton 
should be picked out specially to give him 
"the dignity of feudal Baron." But a 
good deal might have been said of the 
acts of the family during the wars of 
Stephen and Matilda. And we can never 
forgive those who have so little sense of a 
good story as to leave out the tale, which 
the grave Monasticon does not shrink 
from telling, about Edith and the chatter- 
pies, and the foundation of Osney. 

So it goes with pedigrees. The pedi- 
gree-maker in " The Spectator," who blot- 
ted out the weaver who was burned for his 
religion, who kept the knight who was 
hanged for treason, and who added " Es- 
quire " to all those forefathers who had no 
particular description, is typical of his 
class. One family thinks Englishmen 
more creditable than Normans, and so in- 
vents English forefathers which history 
does not give them. Another family 
thinks Normans more creditable than 
Englishmen, and so gets rid of the En- 
glisli forefathers which history does give 
them. Another, with a stranger taste than 
all, gets rid of Englishmen, Danes, Nor- 
mans, Frenchmen, all at a blow, and is 



82 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



satisfied to begin its pedigree in tlie twelfth 
century, when it might with a perfectly 
good conscience have begun it in the 
fifth. 

There is another class of pedigree-mak- 
ers who either are wise in their genera- 
tion, or else have been greatly favored by 
good luck. These are those whose tales 
are just as unlikely, often just as impossi- 
ble, in themselves as those that we have 
just gone through, but who provide for 
themselves a means of escape by taking 
shelter in those parts of the kingdom 
where we cannot at once apply the infalli- 
ble touchstone of Domesday. It is well 
known that a considerable part of what is 
now northern England is not entered in 
Domesday. Part of it, it would seem, was 
left out because it was so wasted as not to 
be worth surveying. Part of it was left 
out for the still better reason that it did 
not form part of the kingdom of England. 
The former region takes in Northumber- 
land in the modern sense and the bishop- 
ric of Durham. The second takes in 
those parts of the modern counties of 
Cumberland and Westmoreland which, 
till late ecclesiastical changes, formed the 
diocese of Carlisle, a district which was 
not added to England till the time of Wil- 
liam Rufus. Within this last district the 
pedigree-makers can be refuted only in a 
general way. When we are told that such 
and such a man's forefather received a 
grant from William within this district, if 
the forefather is an altogether impossible 
man, we can reject him on the ground of 
his general impossibility. If he is an 
otherwise possible man, we can only say 
that he may have had a grant from Wil- 
liam somewhere else, and tliat we will look 
in Domesday to see Avhcther he had. Or 
again, he may have had lands in Old Cum- 
berland by a grant from some of the old 
rulers before the land became English, or 
from some of the later kings after it be- 
came English. The former proposition 
would be hard to prove or' to disprove. 
The latter could be commonly tested by 
local knowledge. But one thing at least is 
certain, that no man had a grant from 
William in Old Cumberland, because Wil- 
liam never held Old Cumberland to grant 
anything there to anybody. Thus when 
we arc told, under the pedigree of the 
Earl of Bessborough, that "this family 
takes its surname from the lordship of 
Ponsonby, in Cumberland, which its patri- 
arch acquired with other considerable 
estates at the time of the Conquest," we 
may say with perfect safety that, whenever 
this patriarch — of whom his tribe does 



not seem to know enough to give him a 
name — may have acquired its estates, it 
was not at the time of the Conquest. 
When we get into Northumberlana and 
Durham, the conditions are somewhat 
changed. When a man says either that 
his forefather received a grant from Wil- 
liam in those parts, or that his forefather 
held lands there before William came, we 
cannot meet him either with the usual 
Domesday argument or with the special 
Cumbrian argument. If the forefather, 
Norman or English, is a possible man, 
open to no a priori objection, the general 
historian cannot of himself say that it is 
not so. He must leave the story to be 
confirmed or upset by those who have 
local knowledge. Take for instance the 
pedigree of the house of Lumley. I am 
told by those who know the history of the 
bishopric better than I do that it is reallv 
possible to trace up the descent of this 
family to Ligulf or Liulf, whose story is 
told at large by Florence of Worcester 
and Simeon of Durham, and whose mur- 
der led to the famous slaughter of Bishop 
Walcher at Gateshead. I accept the pea- 
igree on this showing. But I turn to Sir 
Bernard Burke, and I find that, even where 
there is a perfectly plain story, where there 
is nothing to do but to copy from the his- 
torians of the time, the pedigree-maker 
cannot put his hand upon it witliout spoil- 
ing every detail. Ligulf, or his softened 
form Liulf, gets spelled in various gro- 
tesque ways, "Liulph," " Lyulph," and 
what not — people of this kind seem to 
think that the more needless letters are 
stuck into a name, the more venerable it 
looks. Then Ligulf, the Englishman, is 
provided with an impossible and Norman- 
sounding father, Osbert de Lumley; his 
wife's father is turned from Ealdred into 
Alfred; his wife's mother yElfgifu — in 
Latin form Elfgiva — daughter of King 
iEthelred, is turned into ** Edgina," and 
the unready kin^ himself is promoted to a 
feminine form in the shape of " Ethel- 
dred." The murderer, perhaps from a 
creditable feeling, is not allowed to keep 
his name any more than the rest. Leob- 
wine, in the hands of Sir Bernard Burke, 
takes the grotesque shape of Leoferiso, 
One is again driven to ask, has the Ulster 
king-at-arms no books, or, if he has any 
books, does he never look at them, that 
he goes on printing this hideous nonsense 
in thirty-two editions 1 All is alike to Sir 
Bernard Burke ; whether it be the mere 
form of a name, or whether it be the great 
and broad facts of English history, it is all 
the same in his pages. Impossible men 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



83 



With impossible names, bearing impossible 
titles and offices, do impossible acts in 
impossible places at impossible times. 
Such is history when it falls into the hands 
of pedigree-makers, even when they sub- 
ject their pages to searching revision and 
extensive amendment. 

In short we have nothing to do but to 
turn over the pages of Sir Bernard Burke's 
" Peerage and Baronetage," and almost 
every step we come to somebody who had 
a forefather settled in such a place before 
the Conquest or at the Conquest, whose 
name Domesday knows not. Of the one 
class there is St. Leger, Viscount Done- 
raile, whose name in the days of the Con- 
queror was written " Sent Le^ere." " Sir 
Robert Sent Legere, Knt.," all except his 
••Sir" and his "Knight," has so natural 
an air that one looks to see whether he is 
in Domesday. The search is vain ; but 
"according to a tradition in the family," 
he was the person who supported the 
Conqueror with his arm when he quitted 
his ship to land in Sussex. As another 
tradition, at least better than that of "the 
family," makes the Conqueror stumble as 
he landed, it would seem that Sir Robert's 
arm was but a frail support. Nevertheless 
he "overcame a pagan Dane(!) who in- 
habited the manor of Ulcombe, in Kent, 
and fixed his abode there." Of the other 
type we have Lofthouse of Lofthouse, 
forefather of the Marquesses of Ely — 
forefather too seemingly of an Archbishop 
of Dublin of somewhat doubtful reputation 
— who was, we are told, great in York- 
shire as early as the time of iClfred. 
What happened to him during the Danish 
invasion we are not told. But when we 
turn to Domesday, we find Lofthouse held 
by three nameless thegns, of whose fore- 
fathers and descendants there is nothing 
to be said. We ma^ turn over a few 
more pages, and we light on the singular 
fact that a family named Morres in Ire- 
land, dissatisfied with a very respectable 
name which might have reminded them 
of the Theban legion, thought proper in 
the last century to change it into Montmo- 
rency^ and to give out that a branch of the 
house of the first Christian baron followed 
the banner of the Norman, and received 
from him a grant of land in the princi- 
pality of Wales. The part of the island 
was well chosen; for, in the nature of 
things, only a very small part of what we 
call Wales could appear in Domesday. 
But there is an index of persons as well 
as an index of places, and the name of 
Montmorency may be looked for in vain 
in any part of the great Survey. This 



story is worth some notice, because it is 
one of the very few cases where the faith 
even of Sir Bernard Burke gives way. 
He had stood a good deal ; but even he 
must draw the line somewhere, and the 
change of Morres into Montmorency was 
too much for him. When he comes to 
this monstrous fable, we do for once hear, 
"this family claims," "it is said," "pre- 
sumed descent," and the like, showing 
that there is somewhere a last pound 
which breaks the back even of an Ulster 
kino;-at-arms. But Sir Bernard Burke's 
faith regains its usual robustness when he 
reaches the pedigree of Temple, with its 
imaginary descent from Lcofric Earl of 
the Mercians. The Montmorency fable 
itself, though more daring, is hardly more 
easily refuted. The children of Earl 
Leofric are well known, and most cer- 
tainlv no man, not even Peter Temple who 
livecl in the time of Edward the Sixth, can 
claim to spring of him in the main line.* 

Such are a lew of the best specimens of 
the different classes of absurd tales into 
which history has been perverted by family 
vanity. One family or its flatterers pervert 
in one way, another perverts in another 
way ; but all who have the unlucky fancy 
of not being satisfied with real, or at least 
with possible, forefathers, pervert in one 
way or another. But it is only right to say 
that this unlucky fancy has by no means 
spread itself over tht whole peerage and 
baronetage of England. In turning over the 
pages of Sir Bernard Burke, if we light on 
much wild nonsense, we also light on much 
sound sense. We come to many who 
claim long pedigrees because they have a 
real right to them. We come to many 
who, seeing that destiny has given them 
only short pedigrees, have not felt any call 
to make them longer by dint of falsehood. 
When a man is bold enough to begin his 
pedigree in the seventeenth or eighteenth 
centurv, still more when he is bold enough 
to begin it in the nineteenth, lovers of 
truth will respect him as a fellow-lover of 
truth. At the same time a little curiosity 

* I believe that I have got together all that can be 
found out of the family of Leofnc at vol. ii., p. 368, of 
the " History of the Norman Conquest." IJut there 
is something amusing in Sir liernard Uurke's descrip- 
tion of him as *' LeoTric, Earl of Chester (erroneously 
styled Earl of Leicester)." 1 he error lies in de.i;rading 
the great Earl of the Mercians into a mere local earl, 
sometimes of Chester, sometimex of Coventry. Sir 
Bernard Durke might understand the difference, if the 
lord lieutenant of Ireland were to be called lord 
lieutenant of Cork. But supposing Leofric to have 
been a mere Earl of Chester, there would have been no 
error whatever, in the language of his own day, in call- 
ing him Earl of Leicester. For Legeceastery civitas 
iegionum^ most commonly means the city which we 
now call Chef ter. 



84 



PEDIGREES AND PEDIGREE-MAKERS. 



is raised to know whether an Ulster king- 
at-arms does not look down on such hon- 
est men with scorn. It would have been 
so easy to invent a few names, to devise a 
few exploits, and to stick in at random 
some one who, according to taste, either 
came in with the Conqueror or was here 
before the Conqueror. One respects two 
baronets of the name of Smith, who do not 
claim a single forefather so much as a hun- 
dred years back. One hardly extends the 
same feeling to another, who perverts the 
great Teutonic name into " Smijth," who 
fathers the grotesque misspelling on the 
great Sir Thomas Smith of Elizabeth's 
reign — a man who had too much sense for 
such folly — and who finally makes the 
" Smijth " so created, though without any 
mention of the intermediate stages, "a 
descendant from Sir Roger de Clarendon, 
Knight, natural son of the Black Prince.' 

Of tales like these I have perhaps got 
together enough. I have got together 
enough to show what pedigree-making is 
like, enough to show that the family tree, 
the family tradition, the roll of Battle Ab- 
bey, are simply so many forms of sheer 
falsehood. Let no man believe a pedigree 
which goes further back than the last 
three or four centuries, unless he has the 
means of testing it by the touchstone of 
true history. It is something that the 
particular time which pedigree-makers 
have chosen for the display of their wild- 
est pranks is the time when it is easier 
than at any other time to refute them by 
the easy process of turning to the great 
Survey. Let no man believe him who says 
that his forefathers, bearing his name, 
were seated at such and such a place be- 
fore the Conquest. Here there is no need 
to turn to the Survey ; the impossible fic- 
tion refutes itself. And let no man believe 
him who says that his forefather received 
such and such land from the Conqueror, 
until he has looked in the Survey to see 
whether it be so. The assertion is not 
impossible, like the other; but in a vast 
number of cases it turns out to be no less 
false. Men are wiser if, in the absence of 
authentic records, they are satisfied with 
the certain fact that they must have had 
some forefathers in the eleventh century, 
and with the hope, which may be cherished 
till it is disproved, that those forefathers 
were neither Norman invaders nor English 
traitors. He may believe, in the absence 
of proof to the contrary, that he comes 
of the blood of some one who fought and 
died for England. But he must be satis- 
fied with the reasonable hope ; he cannot 
assert it as a fact which can be proved. 



If men read their history aright, the point 
of honor would be, not to make out that 
they are the descendants of the invaders, 
not that they are the descendants of those 
who kept their lands by submission to the 
invaders, but that they are the descendants 
of the men who gave their lives for their 
country, and whose sons lost their lands 
because they were the sons of patriots. 

One word more, let no one deem that, 
because a false pedigree is a thing to be 
eschewed and scouted, therefore a true 
pedigree is a thing to be despised. A true 
pedigree, be it long or short, is a fact ; 
and, like any other fact, it is to be re- 
spected. To those to whom it belongs it 
is a possession ; and, like any other pos- 
session, it is to be respected. It is only 
the false imitation of the true which is 
to be despised. The inheritance of a 
really great name is a great inheritance, 
an inheritance which should be matter, 
not of pride but of responsibility. It was 
something to be a Fabius or a Valerius; 
it is something to be an Erlach or a Re- 
ding. But in truth the inheritance of a 
great name is an inheritance which can 
be had in its fulness only in a common- 
wealth. Where a king can ennoble, 
where the ancient name can be over- 
shadowed by some new-fangled title, 
changing perhaps in each generation, the 
magic of immemorial descent is lost. A 
man runs up the stages from baron to 
duke, and at each stage something of the 
feeling of antiquity is lost. But Quintus 
Fabius Maximus, bearing the name of his 
fathers and sent to do the work of his 
fathers, might be said to have lived on 
from generation to generation. In the 
pure democracy of Schwyz, Rudolfs 4^e- 
din^ commanded at Morgarten; Aloys 
Reding commanded four hundred and 
eighty-three years htcr, when the sham 
democrats of Paris came to overthrow the 
true democracy of the mountains. Under 
a monarchy, the glorious and abiding 
name might have been forgotten in end- 
less changes of title. Instead of a mem- 
ory living fresh in the minds of men, one 
might have had to turn to a peerage to 
find out whether the later hero was or was 
not a descendant of the earlier. There is 
no country which offers such strong temp- 
tations to fiction in the way of pedigree as 
our own. No other country in Europe 
has any event in its history which exactly 
answers to our Norman Conquest, an 
event which calls forth two veins of senti- 
ment, the desire to trace up the pedigree 
to the conquerors and the desire to trace 
up the pedigree to something older than 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



8S 



the conquerors. Between these two 
contending feelings, our English genealo- 
gies have become a mass of fables. At 
Rome and at Sparta, at Venice and at 
Bern, there were doubtless temptations to 
genealogical fictions of other kinds. Most 
pedigrees in all times and places have 
some mythical stages at the beginning. 
The Greek king was bound to trace his 
descent up to Zeus ; the Teutonic king 
was bound to trace his descent up to 
Woden. Every age and country had 
some temptation of the kind; but there 
was none anywhere that so completely 
sapped every principle of truth as the 
necessity which is laid on an old family in 
England, either to have come^ in with the 
Conqueror or else to be older than the 
Conquest. All the more honor then to 
those, and there are not a few, who with- 
stand the temptation, and who claim no 
forefathers save those to whom they can 
prove a right. We may pass by the imag- 
inary claims on either side, and suppose 
that the men whose descendants have a 
regard for truth now were themselves 
men of loyalty and patriotism in past ages. 
VVhen a man has the moral courage to 
send Sir Bernard Burke a pedigree which 
stretches only over three or four gener- 
ations, there is the more reason to believe 
that if he could name his forefathers in 
the twentieth generation, he would find 
them to have been men of whom he need 
not be ashamed. 

Edward A. Freeman. 



^r THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 

BY GEORGE MACDONALD, AUTHOR OF 
"MALCOLM." ETC 

CHAPTER LXI. 
THOUGHTS. 

When Malcolm took Kelpie to her stall 
the night of the arrival of Lady Bellair 
and her nephew, he was rushed upon by 
Demon, and nearly prostrated between his 
immoderate welcome and the startled rear- 
ing of the mare. The hound had arrived 
a couple of hours before, while Malcolm 
was out He wondered he had not seen 
him with the carriage he had passed, never 
suspecting^ he had had another conduc- 
tress, or dreaming what his presence there 
signified for him. 

I have not said much concerning Mal- 
colm's feelings with regard to Lady Clem- 
entina, but all this time the sense of her 



existence had been like an atmosphere 
surrounding and pervading his thought. 
He saw in her the promise of all he could 
desire to see in woman. His love was not 
of the blind-little-boy sort, but of a deeper, 
more exacting, keen-eyed kind, that sees 
faults where even a true mother will not, 
so jealous is it of the perfection of the 
beloved. But one thing was plain, even 
to this seraphic dragon that dwelt sleep- 
less in him — and there was eternal con- 
tent in the thought — that such a woman, 
once started on the right way, would soon 
leave fault and weakness behind her, and 
become as one of the grand women of 
old, whose religion was simply what re- 
ligion is — life, neither more nor less than 
lite. She would be a saint without know- 
ing it, the only grand kind of sainthood. 
Whoever can think of religion as an addi- 
tion to life, however glorious — a starry 
crown, say, set upon the head of humanity 
— is not yet the least in the kingdom of 
heaven. Whoever thinks of life as a 
something that could be without religion 
is in deathly ignorance of both. Life and 
religion are one, or neither is anything: 
I will not say neither is growing to be 
anything. Religion is no way ot life, no 
show of life, no observance of any sort. 
It is neither the food nor medicine of be- 
ing. It is life essential. To think other- 
wise is as if a man should pride himself 
on his honesty or his parental kindness, 
or hold up his head amongst men because 
he never killed one : were he less than 
honest or kind or free from blood, he 
would yet think something of himself. 
The man to whom virtue is but the orna- 
ment of character, something over and 
above, not essential to it, is not yet a 
man. 

If I say, then, that Malcolm was always 
thinking about Lady Clementina when he 
was not thinking about something he had 
to think about, have I not said nearly 
enough on the matter? Should I ever 
dream of attempting to set forth what love 
is in such a man for such a woman ? There 
are comparatively few that have more than 
the glimmer of a notion of what love means. 
God only knows how grandly, how pas- 
sionately, yet how calmly, how divinely, 
the man and the woman he has made 
might, may, shall love each other. One 
thing only I will dare to say — that the 
love that belonged to Malcolm's nature 
was one through the very nerves of which 
the love of God must rise and flow and 
return as its essential life. If any man 
think that such a love could no longer be 
the love of the man for the woman, he 



86 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



knows bis own nature, and that of the 
woman he pretends or thinks he adores, 
but in the darkest of glasses. 

Malcolm's lowly idea of himself did not 
at all interfere with his loving Clementina, 
for at first his love was entirely dissociated 
from any thought of hers. When the 
idea, the mere idea, of her loving him pre- 
sented itself, from whatever quarter sug- 
gested, he turned from it with shame and 
self-reproof: the thought was in its own 
nature too unfit. That splendor regard 
him ! From a social point of view there 
was of course little presumption in it. 
The Marquis of Lossie bore a name that 
might pair itself with any in the land ; but 
Malcolm did not yet feel that the title 
made much difference to the fisherman. 
He was what he was, and that was some- 
thing very lowly indeed. Yet the thought 
would at times dawn up from somewhere 
in the infinite matrix of thought that per- 
haps if he went to college and graduated 
and dressed like a gentleman, and did 
everything as gentlemen do — in short, 
claimed his rank and lived as a marquis 
should, as well as a fisherman might — 
then — then — was it not, might it not, be 
within the bounds of possibility — just 
within them — that the great-hearted, gen- 
erous, liberty-loving Lady Clementina, 
groom as he had been, menial as he had 
heard himself called, and as, ere yet he 
knew his birth, he had laughed to hear, 
knowing that his service was true — that 
she, who despised nothing human, would 
be neither disgusted nor contemptuous nor 
wrathful if, trom a great way off, at an 
awful remove of humility and worship, he 
were to wake in her a surmise that he 
dared feel toward her as he had never 
felt and never could feel toward any other ? 
For would it not be altogether counter to 
the principles he had so often heard her 
announce and defend to despise him be- 
cause he had earned his bread by doing 
honorable work — work hearty and up to 
the worth of his wages ? Was she one to 
say and not see, to opine and not believe ? 
or was she one to hold and not practice — 
to believe for the heart, and not for the 
hand — to say / i''^, and not go — / love^ 
and not help.-* If such she were, then 
there were for him no further searchings 
of the heart upon her account : he could 
but hold up her name in the common 
prayer for all men, only praying besides 
not to dream about her when he slept. 

At length, such thoughts rising again 
and again, and ever accompanied by such 
reflections concerning the truth of her 
character, and by the growing certainty 



that her convictions were the souls of ac- 
tions to be born of them, his daring of 
belief in her strengthened until he began 
to think that perhaps it would be neither 
his early history nor his defective educa- 
tion nor his clumsiness that would prevent 
her from listening to such words where- 
with he burned to throw open the gates of 
his world and pray her to enter and sit 
upon its loftiest throne — its loftiest throne 
but one. And with the thought he felt as 
if he must run to her, calling aloud that 
he was the Marquis of Lossie, and throw 
himself at her feet. 

But the wheels of his thought-chariot, 
self-moved, were rushing, and here was no 
goal at which to halt or turn ; for, feeling 
thus, where was his faith in her principles ? 
how now was he treating the truth of her 
nature ? where now were his convictions 
of the genuineness of her professions ? 
Where were those principles, that truth, 
those professions, if after all she would 
listen to a marquis and would not listen to 
a groom ? To suppose such a thing was 
to wrong her grievously. To herald his 
suit with his rank would be to insult her, 
declaring that he regarded her theories of 
humanity as wordy froth. And what a 
chance of proving her truth would he not 
deprive her of if, as he approached her, 
he called on the marquis to supplement 
the man ! But what, then, was the man, 
fisherman or marquis, to dare e^'en himself 
to such a glory as the Lady Clementina ? 
This much of a man, at least, answered 
his waking dignity, that he could not con- 
descend to be accepted as Malcolm, Mar- 
quis of Lossie, knowing he would have 
been rejected as Malcolm MacPhail, fish- 
erman and groom. Accepted as marquis, 
he would forever be haunted with the 
channering question whether she would 
have accepted him as groom. And if in 
his pain he were one day to utter it, and 
she in her honesty were to confess she 
would not, must .she not then fall prone 
from her pedestal in his imagination? 
Could he then, in love for the woman her- 
self, condescend as marquis to marry one 
who mi^lit not have married him as any 
something else he could honestly have 
been under the all-enlightening sun? Ah, 
but again, was that fair to her yet ? Might 
she not see in the marquis the truth and 
worth which the blinding falsehoods of 
society prevented her from seeing in the 
groom? Might not a lady — he tried to 
think of a lady in the abstract — might not 
a lady in marrying a marquis — a lady to 
whom from her own position a marquis 
was just a man on the level — marry in 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



87 



him the man he was, and not the marquis 
he seemed ? Most certainly, he answered : 
he must not be unfair. Not the less, 
however, did he shrink from the thought 
of taking her prisoner under the shield of 
his marquisate, beclouding her nobility, 
and depriving her of the rare chance of 
shining forth as the sun in the splendor of 
womanly truth. No : he would choose 
the greater risk of losing her for the chance 
of winning her greater. 

So far Malcolm got with his theories, 
but the moment he began to think in the 
least practically he recoiled altogether 
from the presumption. Under no circum- 
stances could he ever have the courage to 
approach Lady Clementina with a thought 
of himself in his mind. How could he 
have dared even raise her imagined eido- 
lon for his thoughts to deal withal ? She 
had never shown him personal favor. He 
could not tell whether she had listened to 
what he had tried to lay before her. . He 
did not know that she had gone to hear 
his master: Florimel had never referred 
to their visit to Hope Chapel. His sur- 
prise would have equalled his delight at 
the news that she had already become as 
a daughter to the schoolmaster. 

And what had been Clemintina's 
thoughts since learning that Florimel had 
not run away with her groom.** It were 
hard to say with completeness. Accuracy, 
however, may not be equally unattainable. 
Her first feeling was an utterly inarticu- 
late, undefined pleasure that Malcolm was 
free to be thought about. She was clear 
next that it would be matter for honest re- 
joicing if the truest man she had ever met 
except his master was not going to marry 
such an unreality as Florimel — one con- 
cerning whom, as things had been going 
of late, it was impossible to say that she 
was not more likely to turn to evil than to 
good. Clementina with all her generosity 
could not help being doubtful of a woman 
who could make a companion of such a 
man as Liftore — a man to whom every 
individual particle of Clementina's nature 
seemed for itself to object. But she was 
not yet past befriending. 

Then she began to grow more curious 
about Malcolm. She had already much 
real knowledge of him, gathered both 
from himself and from Mr. Graham. As 
to what went to make the man, she knew 
hins indeed, not thoroughly, but well; 
and just therefore, she said to herself, 
there were some points in his history and 
condition concerning which she had curi- 
osity. The principaTof these was whether 
he might not be engaged to some young 



woman in his own station of life. It was 
not merely possible, but was it likely he 
could have escaped it? In the lower 
ranks of society men married younger — 
they had no false aims to prevent them : 
that implied earlier engagements. On the 
other hand, was it likely that in a fishing 
village there would be any choice of girls 
who could understand him when he talked 
about Plato and the New Testament ? If 
there were one, however, that might be 
— worse f Yes, worse : she accepted 
the word. Neither was it absolutely 
necessary in a wife that she should under- 
stand more of her husband than his heart 
Many learned men had had mere house- 
keepers for wives, and been satisfied — at 
least never complained. And what did 
she know about the fishers, men or wom- 
en ? There were none at Wastbeach. 
For anything she knew to the contrary, 
they might all be philosophers together, 
and a fitting match for Malcolm might be 
far more easy to find amongst them than 
in the society to which she herself be- 
longed, where in truth the philosophical 
element was rare enough. Then arose in 
her mind, she could not have told how, 
the vision, half lopcal, half pictorial, of a 
whole family of brave, believing, daring, 
saving fisherfolk, father, mother, ooys and 
girls, each sacrificing to the rest, each 
sacrificed to by all, and all devoted to 
their nei^^hbors. Grand it was and bliss- 
ful, and the borders of the great sea alone 
seemed fit place for such beings amphib- 
ious of time and eternity. Their very 
toils and dangers were but additional at- 
mospheres to press their souls together. 
It was glorious 1 Why had she been born 
an earl's daughter, never to look a danger 
in the face, never to have a chance of a true 
life — that is, a grand, simple, noble one? 
Who, then, denied her the chance ? Had 
she HO power to order her own steps, to 
determine her own being ? Was she 
nailed to her rank ? Or who was there 
that could part her from it ? Was she a 
prisoner in the dungeons of the house of 
pride ? When the gates of Paradise closed 
behind Adam and Eve, they had this 
consolation left, that " the world was all 
before them where to choose." Was 
she not a free woman, without even a 
guardian to trouble her with advice ? She 
had no excuse to act ignobly, but had 
she any for being unmaidenly ? Would it 
then be — would it be a tfery unmaidenly 

thing if ? The rest of the sentence 

did not even take the shape of words. But 
she answered it, nevertheless, in the words, 
*^ Not so unmaidenly as presumptuous." 



88 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



And, alas I there was little hope that he 

would ever presume to He was such 

a modest youth with all his directness and 
fearlessness. If he had no respect for 
rank — and that was — yes, she would say 
the word, hopeful — he had, on the other 
hand, the profoundest respect for the hu- 
man, and she could not tell how that might 
in the individual matter operate. 

Then she fell a-thinking of the differ- 
ence between Malcolm and any other ser- 
vant she had ever known. She hated the 
servile. She knew that it was false as 
well as low : she had not got so far as to 
see that it was low through its being false. 
She knew that most servants, while they 
spoke with the appearance of respect in 
presence, altered their tone entirely when 
beyond the circle of the eye : theirs was 
eye-service, they were men-pleasers, they 
were servile. She had overheard her 
maid speak of her as Lady Clem, and that 
not without a streak of contempt in the 
tone. But here was a man who touched 
no imaginary hat while he stood in the 
presence of his mistress, neither swore at 
ner in the stable-yard. He looked her 
straight in the face, and would upon occa- 
sion speak, not his mindy but the truth to 
her. Even his slight mistress had the 
conviction that if one dared in his presence 
but utter her name lightly, whoever he 
were, he would have to answer to him for 
h. What a lovely thing was true service ! 
— absolutely divme! But, alas! such a 
youth would never, could never, dare offer 
other than such service. Were she even 
to encourage him as a maiden might, he 
would but serve her the better — would 
but embody his recognition of her favor in 
fervor of ministering devotion. Was it 
not a recognized law, however, in the rela- 
tion of superiors and inferiors, that with 
regard to such matters, as well as others 

of no moment, the lady Ah, but for 

her to take the initiative would provoke 
the conclusion — as revolting to her as 
unavoidable to him — that she judged her- 
self his superior, so greatly his superior 
as to be absolved from the necessity of 
behaving to him on the ordinary footing of 
man and woman. What a ground to start 
from with a husband I The idea was hate- 
ful to her. She tried the argument that 
such a procedure arrogated merely a supe- 
riority in social standing, but it made her 
recoil from it the more. He was so im- 
measurably her superior that the poor little 
advantage on her side vanished like a can- 
dle in the sunlight, and she laughed her- 
self to scorn. ** Fancy," she laughed, ** a 
snidge, on the strength of having wings, 



condescending to offer marriage to a 
horse I " It would argue the assumption 
of equality in other and more important 
things than rank, or at least the confidence 
that her social superiority not only coun- 
terbalanced the difference, but left enough 
over to her credit to justify her initiative. 
And what a miserable fiction that money 
and position had a right to the first move 
before greatness of living fact — that hav- 
ing had the precedence of being! That 
Malcolm should imagine such Tier judg- 
ment! No, let all go — let himself go 
rather ! And then he might not choose 
to accept her munificent offer ! Or worse, 
far worse, what if he should be tempted 
by rank and wealth, and, accepting her, be 
shorn of his glory and proved of the ordi- 
nary human type after all ? A thousand 
times rather would she see the bright par- 
ticular star blazing unreachable above her. 
What ! would she carry it about a cinder in 
her pocket ? And yet if he couldbt " turned 
to a coal," why should she go on worship- 
ping him ? Alas ! the offer itself was the 
only test severe enough to try him withal, 
and if he proved a cinder she would by 
the very use of the test be bound to love, 
honor, and obey her cinder. She could 
not well reject him for accepting her, 
neither could she marry him if he rose 
grandly superior to her temptations. No I 
he could be nothing to her nearer than the 
bright particular star. 

Thus went the thoughts to and fro in the 
minds of each. Neitiier could see the 
way. Both feared the risk of loss: 
neither could hope greatly for gain. 

CHAPTER LXIL 
THE DUNE. 

Having put Kelpie up, and fed and 
bedded her, Malcolm took his way to 
the Seaton, full of busily anxious thought. 
Things had taken a bad turn, and he was 
worse off for counsel than before. The 
enemy was in the house with his sister, and 
he had no longer any chance of judging 
how matters were going, as now he never 
rode out with her. But at least he could 
haunt the house. He would run, there- 
fore, to his grandfather, and tell him that 
he was going to occupy his old quarters at 
the house that night. 

Returning directly, and passing, as had 
been his custom, through the kitchen to 
ascend the small corkscrew stair the ser- 
vants generally used, he encountered Mrs. 
Courthope, who told him that her ladyship 
had given orders that her maid, who had 
come with Lady Bellair, should have his 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



89 



room. He was at once convinced that 
Florimel had done so with the intention of 
banishing him from the house, for there 
were dozens of rooms vacant, and many 
of them more suitable. It was a hara 
blow. How he wished for Mr. Graham to 
consult ! And yet Mr. Graham was not 
of much use where any sort of plotting 
was wanting. He asked Mrs. Courthope 
to let him have another room, but she 
looked so doubtful that he withdrew his 
request and went back to his grand- 
father. 

It was Saturday, and not many of the 
boats would go fishing. Among the rest, 
Findlay's would not leave the harbor till 
Sunday was over, and therefore Malcolm 
was free. But he could not rest, and 
would go line-fishing. " Daddy," he said, 
** I'm gaein oot to catch a hacldick or sae 
to oor denner the morn. Ye micht jist sit 
doon upo* ane o* the Boar's Taes an' tak 
a plav o' yer pipes. I'll hear ye fine, an' 
it'll du me guid." 

The Boar's Toes were two or three 
small rocks that rose out of the sand near 
the end of the dune. Duncan agreed 
right willingly, and Malcolm, borrowing 
some lines and taking the Psyche's dinghy, 
rowed out into the bay. 

The sun was down, the moon was up, 
and he had caught more fish than he 
wanted. His grandfather had got tired 
and gone home, and the fountam of his 
anxious thoughts began to flow more rap- 
idly. He must go ashore. He must go 
up to the house : who could tell what 
might not be going on there ? He drew in 
his line, purposing to take the best of the 
fish to Miss Horn and some to Mrs. Court- 
hope, as in the old da3*s. 

The Psyche still lay on the sands, and 
he was rowing the dinghy toward her, 
when, looking round to direct his course, 
he thought he caught a glimpse of some 
one seated on the slope of the dune. Yes, 
there was some one there, sure enough. 
The old times rushed back on his mem- 
ory: could it be Florimel? Alas! it was 
not likely she would now be wandering 
about alone. But if it were ! Then for 
one endeavor more to rouse her slumber- 
ing conscience ! He would call up all the 
associations of the last few months she 
had spent in the place, and, with the spirit 
of her father, as it were, hovering over 
her, conjure her, in his name, to break with 
Li f tore. 

He rowed swiftly to the Psyche, beached 
and drew up the dinghy, and climbed the 
dune. Plainly enough, it was a lady who 
sat there. It might be one from the upper 



town enjoying the lovely night : it might 
be Florimel, but how could she have got 
away, or wished to get away, from her 
newly-arrived guests ? The voices of sev- 
eral groups of walkers came from the 
high-road behind the dune, but there was 
no other figure to be seen all along the 
sands. He drew nearer. The lady did 
not move. If it were Florimel, would she 
not know him as he came, and would she 
wait for him? 

He drew nearer still. His heart gave 
a great throb. Could it be, or was the 
moon weaving some hallucination in his 
troubled brain ? If it was a phantom, it 
was that of Lady Clementina : if but mod- 
elled of the filmy vapors of the moonlight, 
and the artist his own brain, the phantom 
was welcome as joy. His spirit seemed 
to soar aloft in tne yellow air and hang 
hovering over and around her, while his 
body stood rooted to the spot, like one 
who fears, by moving nigher, to lose the 
lovely vision of a mirage. She sat motion- 
less, her gaze on the sea. Malcolm be- 
thought himself that she could not know 
him m his fisher-dress, and must take him 
for some rude fisherman staring at her. 
He must go at once, or approach and ad- 
dress her. He came forward at once. 
** My lady 1 " he said. 

She did not start, neither did she speak. 
She did not even turn her face. She rose 
first, then turned and held out her hand. 
Three steps more and he had it in his, 
and his eyes looked straight into hers. 
Neither spoke. The moon shone full on 
Clementina's face. There was no illumina- 
tion fitter for that face than the moonlight, 
and to Malcolm it was lovelier than ever. 
Nor was it any wonder it should seem so to 
him, for certainly never had the eyes in it 
rested on his with such a lovely and trust- 
ing light in them. A moment she stood, 
then slowly sank again upon the sand and 
drew her skirts about her with a dumb show 
of invitation. The place where she sat was 
a little terraced hollow in the slope, forming 
a convenient seat. Malcolm saw, but 
could not believe she actually made room 
for him to sit beside her — alone with her 
in the universe. It was too much : he 
dared not believe it. And now, by one of 
those wondrous duplications which are not 
always at least born of the fancy, the same 
scene in which he had found Florimel thus 
seated on the slope of the dune appeared 
to be passing again through Malcolm's 
consciousness, only instead of Florimel 
was Clementina, and instead of the sun 
was the moon. And creature of the sun- 
light as Florimel was^ bright and gay and 



90 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



beautiful, she paled into a creature of the 
cloud beside this maiden of the moonlight, 
tall and stately, silent and soft and grand. 

Again she made a movement. This 
time he could not doubt her invitation. It 
was as if her soul made room in her un- 
seen world for him to enter and sit beside 
her. But who could enter heaven in his 
work-day garments ? 

" Won't you sit by me, Malcolm ? " see- 
ing his more than hesitation, she said at 
last, with a slight tremble in the voice that 
was music itself in his ears. 

" I have been catching fish, my lady," 
he answered, "and my clothes must be 
unpleasant. I will sit here." 

He went a little lower on the slope and 
laid himself down, leaning on his elbow. 

" Do fresh -water fishes smell the same 
as the sea-fishes, Malcolm ? " she asked. 

"Indeed I am not certain, my lady. 
Why } " 

" Because if they do You remem- 
ber what you said to me as we passed the 
saw-mill in the wood.** " 

It was by silence Malcolm showed he 
did remember. 

" Does not this night remind you of 
that one at Wastbeach when we came upon 
you sin";ing ? " said Clementina. 

" It* ts like it, my lady — now. But, a 
little ago, before 1 saw you, I was think- 
ing of that night, and thinking how differ- 
ent this was." 

Again a moon-filled silence fell, and 
once more it was the lady who broke it. 
"Do you know who are at the house?" 
she asked. 

" I do, my lady," he replied. 

" I had not been there more than an 
hour or two," she went on, " when they 
arrived. I suppose Florimel — Lady Los- 
sie — thought I would not come if she 
told me she expected them." 

" And would you have come, my 
lady ? " 

" 1 cannot endure the earl." 

" Neither can I. But then I know more 
about him than your ladyship does, and I 
am miserable for my mistress." 

It stung Clementma as if her heart had 
taken a beat backward. But her voice 
was steadier than it had yet been as she 
returned, " Why should you be miserable 
for Lady Lossie ? " 

" I would die rather than see her marry 
that wretch," he answered. 

Again her blood stung her in the left 
side. " You do not want her to marry, 
then ? " she said. 

" I do," answered Malcolm, emphati- 
cally, " but not that fellow." 



" Whom, then, if I may ask ? " ven- 
tured Clementina trembling. 

But Malcolm was silent. He did not 
feel it would be right to say. 

Clementina turned sick at heart. " I 
have heard there is something dangerous 
about the moonlight," she said, " I think 
it does not suit me to-night. I will go — 
home." 

Malcolm sprang to his feet and offered 
his hand. She did not take it, but rose 
more lightly, though more slowly, than he. 
"How did you come from the park, my 
lady ? " he asked. 

" By a gate over there," she answered, 
pointing. " I wandered out after dinner, 
and the sea drew me." 

"If your ladyship will allow me» I will 
take you a much nearer way back," he 
said. 

" Do, then," she returned. 

He thought she spoke a little sadly, and 
set it down to her having to .go back to 
her fellow-guests. What if she should 
leave to-morrow morning ? he thought. 
He could never then be sure she had 
really been with him that night. He must 
sometimes think it then a dream. But oh 
what a dream ! He could thank God for 
it all his life if he should never dream so 
again. 

They walked across the grassy sand 
toward the tunnel in silence, he pondering 
what he could say that might comfort her 
and keep her from going so soon. 

" My lady never takes me out with her 
now," he said at length. He was going 
to add that if she pleased he could wait 
upon her with Kelpie and show her the 
country. But then he saw that if she 
were not with Florimel, his sister would 
be riding everywhere alone with Liftore. 
Therefore he stopped short. 

" And you feel forsaken — deserted ? " 
returned Clementina, sadly still. 

" Rather, my lady." 

They had reached the tunnel. It looked 
very black when he opened the door, but 
there was just a glimmer through the trees 
at the other end. 

" This is the valley of the shadow of 
death," she said. " Do I walk straight 
through ? " 

" Yes, my lady. You will soon come 
out in the light again," he said. 

"Arc there no steps to fall down?" 
she asked. 

" None, my lady. But I will go first, 
if you wish." 

"No, that would but cut off the little 
light I have," she said. " Come beside 
me." 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



91 



They passed through in silence, save 
for the rustle of her dress and the dull 
echo that haunted their steps. In a few 
moments they came out among the trees, 
but both continued silent. The still, 
thoughtful moon-night seemed to press 
them close together, but neither knew that 
the other felt the same. 

They reached a point in the road where 
another step would bring them in sight of 
the house. 

" You cannot go wrong now, my lady," 
said Malcolm. ^* If you please I will go 
no farther." 

** Do you not live in the house ? " she 
asked. 

" I used to do as I liked, and could be 
there or with my grandfather. I did mean 
to be at the house to-night, but my lady 
has given my room to her maid." 

** What ! that woman Caley ? " 

" I suppose so, my lady. I must sleep 
to-night in the village. If you could, mv 
lady " — he added, after a pause, and fal- 
tered, hesitating. She did not help him, 
but waited. " If you could — if you would 
not be displeased at my asking you," he 
resumed — " if you could keep my lady 
from going farther with that — I shall call 
him names if I go on." 

** It is a strange request," Clementina 
replied after a moment's reflection. " I 
hardly know, as the guest of Lady Lossie, 
what answer I ought to make to it. One 
thing I will say, however, that, though 
you may know more of the man than I, 
vou can hardly dislike him more. Whether 
1 can interfere is another matter. Hon- 
estly, I do not think it would be of any 
use. But I do not say that I will not. 
Good-night." 

She hurried away, and did not again 
offer her hand. 

Malcolm walked back through the tun- 
nel, his heart singing and making melody. 
Oh how lovely — how more than lovely, 
how divinely beautiful — she was! And 
so kind and friendly I Yet she seemed 
just the least bit fitful too. Something 
troubled her, he said to himself. But he 
little thought that he, and no one else, had 
spoiled the moonlight for her. He went 
home to glorious dreams — she to a 
troubled, half-wakeful night. Not until 
she had made up her mind to do her ut- 
most to rescue Florimel from Li f tore, 
even if it gave her to Malcolm, did she 
find a moment's quiet. It was morning 
then, but she fell fast asleep, slept late 
and woke refreshed. 



' CHAPTER LXni. 
CONFESSION OF SIN. 



Mr. Crathie was slowly recovering, 
but still very weak. He did not, after 
having turned the corner, get well so fast 
as his medical minister judged he ought, 
and the reason was plain to Lizzy, dimly 
perceptible to his wife : he was ill at ease. 
A man may have more mind and more 
conscience, and more discomfort in both 
or either, than his neighbors give him 
credit for. They may be in the right 
about him up to a certain point of his 
history, but then a crisis by them unper- 
ceived, perhaps to them inappreciable, 
arrived, after which the man to all eter- 
nity could never be the same as they had 
known him. Such a change must appear 
improbable, and save on the theory of a 
higher operative power is improbable be- 
cause impossible. But a man who has 
not created himself can never secure him- 
self against the inroad of the glorious ter- 
ror of that Goodness which was able to 
utter him into being, with all its possible 
wrongs and repentances. The fact that a 
man has never, up to any point yet, been 
aware of aught beyond himself cannot shut 
Him out who is beyond him, when at last 
he means to enter. Not even the soul- 
benumbing visits of his clerical minister 
could repress the swell of the slow-mount- 
ing dayspring in the soul of the hard, com- 
monplace, business-worshipping man. Hec- 
tor Crathie. The hireling would talk to 
him kindly enough, of his illness or the 
events of the day, especially those of the 
town and neighborhood, and encourage 
him with reiterated expression of the hope 
that ere many days they would enjoy a 
tumbler together as of old; but as to 
wrong done, apology to make, forgiveness 
to be sought or consolation to be found, 
the dumb dog had not uttered a bark. 

The sources of the factor's restless dis- 
comfort were now two — the first, that he 
had lifted his hand to women ; the sec- 
ond, the old ground of his quarrel with 
Malcolm brought up by Lizzy. 

All his life, since ever he had had busi- 
ness, Mr. Crathie had prided himself on 
his honesty, and was therefore in one of 
the most dangerous moral positions a man 
could occupy — ruinous even to the hon- 
esty itself. Asleep in the mud, he dreamed 
himself awake on a pedestal. At best, 
such a man is but perched on a needle- 
point when he thinketh he standelh. Of 
him who prided himself on his honor I 
should expect that one day, in the long 
run it might be, he would do some vile 



93 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



thing. Not, probably, within -the small 
circle of illumination around his wretched 
rushlight ; but in the great region beyond 
It, of what to him is a moral darkness or 
twilight vague, he may be or may become 
capable of doing a deed that will stink in 
the nostrils of the universe; and in his 
own when he knows it as it is. The hon- 
esty in which a man can pride himself 
must be a small one, for more honesty 
will never think of itself at all. The lim- 
ited honesty of the factor clave to the 
interests of his employers, and let the 
rights he encountered take care of them- 
selves. Those he dealt with were to him 
rather as enemies than friends — not en- 
emies to be prayed for, but to be spoiled. 
Malcolm's doctrine of honesty in horse- 
dealing was to him ludicrously new. His 
notion of honesty in that kind was to cheat 
the buyer for his master if he could, proud 
to write in his book a large sum against 
the name of the animal. He would have 
scorned in his ver^ soul the idea of making 
a farthing by it himself through any busi- 
ness quirk whatever, but he would not have 
been the least ashamed if, having sold 
Kelpie, he had heard — let me say after 
a week of possession — that she had 
dashed out her purchaser's brains. He 
would have been a little shocked, a little 
sorry perhaps, but nowise ashamed. " By 
this time," he would have said, *' the man 
ought to have been up to her, and either 
taken care of himself or sold her again " 
— to dash out another man's orains 
instead ! 

That the bastard Malcolm, or the igno- 
rant and indeed fallen fisher-girl Lizzy, 
should judge differently, nowise troubled 
him: what could they know about the 
rights and wrongs of business ? The fact 
which Lizzy sought to bring to bear upon 
him, that our Lord would not have done 
such a thing, was to him no argument at 
all. He said to himself, with the superior 
smile of arrogated common sense, that 
"no mere man since the fall" could be 
expected to do like him ; that he was di- 
vine, and had not to fight for a living; that 
he sets us an example that we might see 
what sinners we were ; that religion was 
one thing, and a very proper thing, but 
business was another, and a very proper 
thing also — with customs, and indeed 
laws, of its own far more determinate, at 
least definite, than those of religion : and 
that to mingle the one with the other was 
not merely absurd — it was irreverent and 
wrong, and certainly never intended in the 
Bible, which must surely be common 
sense. It was the Bible always with him 



— never the will of Christ, But although 
he could dispose of the question thus sat- 
isfactorily, yet, as he lay ill, supine, with- 
out any distracting occupation, the thing 
haunted him. Now, in his father's cot- 
tage had lain, much dabbled in of the 
children, a certain boardless copy of the 
" Pilgrim's Progress," round in the face 
and hollow in the back, in which, amon;^t 
other pictures, was one of the wicket 
gate. This scripture of his childhood, 
given by inspiration of God, threw out, in 
one of his troubled and feverish nights, a 
dream-bud in the brain of the man. He 
saw the face of Jesus looking on him over 
the top of the wicket gate, at which he 
had been for some time knocking in vain, 
while the cruel dog barked loud from the 
enemy's yard. But that face, when at List 
it came, was full of sorrowful displeasure. 
And in his heart he knew that it was be- 
cause of a certain transaction in horse- 
dealing wherein he had hitherto lauded his 
own cunning — adroitness, he considered 
it — and success. One word only he 
heard from the lips of the Man, " Worker 
of iniquity ! " and woke with a great start. 
From that moment truths began to be facts 
to him. The beginning of the change was 
indeed very small, but every beginning is 
small, and every beginning is a creation. 
Monad, molecule, protoplasm, whatever 
word may be attached to it when it be- 
comes appreciable by men — being then, 
however, many stages, I believe, upon its 
journey — beginning is an irrepressible 
fact ; and, however far from good* or hum- 
ble even after many days, the man here 
began to grow good and humble. His 
dull, unimaginative nature, a perfect lum- 
ber-room of the world and its rusting 
affairs, had received a gift in a dream — a 
truth from the lips of the Lord, remod- 
elled in the brain and heart of the tinker 
of Elstow, and sent forth in his wondrous 
parable to be pictured and printed, and lie 
in old Hector Crathie's cottage, that it 
might enter and lie in young Hector 
Crathie's brain until he grew old and had 
done wrong enough to heed it, when it 
rose upon him in a dream, and had its 
way. Henceforth the claims of his nei^jh- 
bor began to reveal themselves, and his 
mind to breed conscientfous doubts and 
scruples, with which, struggle as he might 
against it, a certain respect for Malcolm 
would keep coming and mingling, a feel- 
ing which grew with its returns, until, by 
slow changes, he began at length to re- 
gard him as the minister of God's ven- 
geance for his punishment, and perhaps 
salvation — who could tell ? 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



93 



Lizzy's nightly ministrations had not 
been resumed, but she often called, and 
was a eood deal with him ; for Mrs. 
Crathie had learned to like the humble, 
helpful girl still better when she found 
she had taken no offence at bein^ deprived 
of her post of honor by his bedside. One 
day, when Malcolm was seated, mending 
a net, among the thin grass and mat red 
daisies of the links by the bank of the 
burn where it crossed the sands from the 
Lossie grounds to the sea, Lizzy came up 
to him and said, " The factor wad like to 
see ye, Malcolm, as sune 's ye can gang 
till 'im." 

She waited no reply. Malcolm rose and 
went 

At the factor's the door was opened by 
Mrs. Crathie herself, who, looking myste- 
rious, led him to the dining-room, where 
she plunged at once into business, doing 
her l3est to keep down all manifestation 
of the profound resentment she cherished 
against him. Her manner was confiden- 
tial, almost coaxing. ** Ye see, Ma'colm," 
she said, as if pursuing instead of com- 
mencing a conversation, *' he's some sore 
about the little fraicass between him an' 
you. Jest make your apoalogies till 'im, 
an' tell 'im you had a drop too much, and 
you're soary for misbehavin' yerself to 
wann sae much your shuperrior. Tell 'im 
that, Ma'colm, an' there's a half-croon to 
ye." 

She wished much to speak English, and 
I have tried to represent the thing she did 
speak, which was neither honest Scotch 
nor anything like English. Alas! the 
eood, pithy* old Anglo-Saxon dialect is 
fast perishing, and a jargon of corrupt 
English taking its place 1 

**liut, mem," said Malcolm, taking no 
notice either of the coin or the words that 
accompanied the offer of it, '* I canna lee : 
I wasna in drink, an' I'm no sorry." 

" Hoot 1 " returned Mrs. Cratnie, blurt- 
ing out her Scotch fast enough now, " I 
s' warran' ye can lee weel eneuch when ye 
hae occasion. Tak yer siller an' du as I 
tell ye." 

** Wad ye hae me damned, mem ? " 

Mrs. Crathie gave a cry and held up her 
hands. She was too well accustomed to 
imprecations from the lips of her husband 
for any but an affected horror, but regard- 
ing the honest word as a bad one, she 
assumed an air of injury. "Wad ye daur 
to sweir afore a leddy," she exclaimed, 
shakine her uplifted hands in pretence of 
ghasted lastonishment. 

"If Mr. Crathie wishes to see me, 
ma'am," rejoined Malcolm, taking up the 



shield of English, " I am ready. If not, 
please allow me to go." 

The same moment the bell whose rope 
was at the head of the factor's bed rang 
violently, and Mrs. Crathie's importance 
collapsed. "Come this w'y," she said, 
and turning led him up the stair to the 
room where her husband lay. 

Entering, Malcolm stood astonished at 
the change he saw upon the strong man 
of rubicund countenance, and his heart 
filled with compassion. The factor was 
sitting up in bed, looking verv white and 
worn and troubled. Even his nose had 

frown thin and white. He held out his 
and to him, and said to his wife, " Tak 
the door to ^e. Mistress Crathie," indicat- 
ing which side he wished it closed from. 

"Ye was some sair upo' me, Ma'colm," 
he went on, grasping the youth's hand. 

" I doobt I was ower sair," said Mal- 
colm, who could hardly speak for a lump 
in his throat. 

"Weel, I deserved it. But eh, Ma'- 
colm ! I canna believe it was me : it bude 
to be the drink." 

"It was the drink," rejoined Malcolm ; 
" an' eh, sir, afore ye rise f rae that bed 
sweir to the great God 'at ye'U never 
drink nae mair drams, nor onything 'ayont 
ae tum'ler at a sittin'." 

" I sweir 't, I sweir 't, Ma'colm I " cried 
the factor. 

" It's easy to sweir 't noo, sir, but whan 
ye're up again, it'll be hard to keep yer 
faith. O C)rd ! " spoke the youth, break- 
ing out into almost involuntary prayer, 
" help this man to haud troth wi' Thee ! — 
An' noo, Maister Crathie," he ' resumed, 
" I'm yer servan*, ready to du onything I 
can. Forgi'e me, sir, for layin* on ower 
sair." 

" I forgi'e ye wi' a* my hert," returned 
the factor, inly delighted to have some- 
thing to forgive. 

" I thank ye f rae mine," answered Mal- 
colm, and a£ain they shook hands. 

" But eh, Ma'colm, my man I " he added, 
" hoo will I ever shaw my face again ? " 

" Fine that ! " returnea Malcolm, eager- 
ly. "Fowk's terrible guid-natur'd whan 
ye alloo 'at ye're 'i the wrang. I do be- 
lieve 'at whan a man confesses till 's nee- 
bor an' says he's sorry, he thinks mair o' 
'im nor afore he did it. Ye see we a' ken 
we hae dune wrang, but we haena' a' con- 
fessed. An' it's a queer thing, but a man 
'11 think it gran' o' 's neebor to confess, 
when a' the time there's something he 
winna repent o' himsel', for fear o* the 
skame o' haein to confess 't. To me, the 
shame lies in no confessin' efter ye ken 



94 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



yeVe wrang. Ye'Il see, sir, the fisher- 
lovvk Ml min' what ye say to them a heap 
better noo." 

" Div ye railly think it, Malcolm ? " 
sighed the factor with a flush. 

'* I div that, sir. Only whan ye grow 
better, gien ye'U alloo me to say't, sir, ye 
maunna lat Sawtan temp^ ye to think *at 
this same repentin' was but a wakeness o' 
the flesh, an' no an enlichtenment o' the 
speerit." 

" I s' tie myseP up till *t," cried the fac- 
tor eagerly. " Gang an' tell them i' my 
name 'at I tak back ilka scart o' a nottice 
I ever gae ane o' them to quit, only we 
maun hae nae mair stan'in' o' honest fowk 
*at comes to bigg herbors till them. Div 
ye think it wad be weel ta'en gien ye tuik 
a poun'-nott the piece to the twa women ? " 

** I wadna du that, sir, gien I was you," 
answered Malcolm. " For yer ain sake, 
I wadna to Mistress Mair, for naething 
wad gar her tak' it : it wad only affront 
her ; an' for Nancy Tacket's sake, I wadna 
to her, for as her name so's her natur : 
she would not only tak it, but she wad lat 
ye play the same as aften 's ye likit for 
less siller. Ye'll hae mony a chance o' 
makin' 't up to them baith, ten times ower, 
afore you an' them pairt, sir." 

" I maun lea' the cuintry, Ma'colm." 

" 'Deed, sir, ye'll du naething o' the kin'. 
The fishers themsel's wad rise no to lat 
ye, as they did wi' Blew Peter I As sune's 
ye're able to be aboot again, ye'll see plain 
eneuch 'at there's no occasion for onything 
like that, sir. Portlossie wadna ken 'tsel' 
wantin' ye. Jist gie me a commission to 
say to the twa honest women 'at ye're 
sorry for what ye did, an' that's a' 'at need 
be said atween you an' them, or their men 
aither." 

The result showed that Malcolm was 
right, for the very next day, instead of 
looking for gifts from him, the two injured 
women came to the factor's door — first 
Annie Mair with the offering of a few 
fresh eggs, scarce at the season, and after 
her Nancy Tacket with a great lobster. 

CHAPTER LXIV. 
A VISITATION. 

Malcolm's custom was first, immedi- 
ately after breakfast, to give Kelpie her 
airing — and a tremendous amount of air 
she wanted for the huge animal furnace 
of her frame and the fiery spirit that kept 
it alight — then, returning to the Seaton, 
to change the dress of the groom, in which 
he always appeared about the house, lest 
by any chance his mistress should want 



him, for that of the fisherman, and help 
with the nets or the boats, or in whatever 
was going on. As often as he might he 
did what seldom a man would — went to 
the long shed where the women prepared 
the fish for salting, took a knife and 
wrought as deftly as any of them, throw- 
ing a marvellously rapid succession of 
cleaned herrings into the preserving brine. 
It was no wonder he was a favorite with 
the women. Although, however, the place 
was malodorous and the work dirty, I can- 
not claim so much for Malcolm as may at 
first appear to belong to him, for he nad 
been accustomed to the sight and smell 
from earliest childhood. Still, as I say, it 
was work the men would not do. He had 
such a chivalrous humanity that it was 
misery to him to see a man or woman at 
anything scorned except he bore a hand 
himself. He did it half in love, half in 
terror of being unjust. 

He had gone to Mr. Crathie in his fish- 
er-clothes, thinking it better the sick man 
should not be reminded of the cause of 
his illness more forcibly than could not be 
helped. The nearest way led him past a 
corner of the house overlooked by one of 
the drawing-room windows. Clementina 
saw him pass, and, judging by his garb 
that he would probably return presently, 
went out in the hope of meeting him, and 
as he was going back to his net by the 
sea-gate he caught sight of her on the op- 
posite side of the burn, accompanied only 
by a book. He walked through it, climbed 
the bank and approached her. 

It was a hot summer afternoon. The 
burn ran dark and brown and cool in deep 
shade, but the sea beyond was glowing in 
light, and the laburnum blossoms hung like 
cocoons of sunbeams. No breath of air 
was stirring; no bird sang; the sun was 
burning high in the west. 

Clementina stood waiting him, like a 
moon that could hold her own in the face 
of the sun. " Malcolm," she said, ** I have 
been watching all day, but have not found 
a single opportunity of speaking to your 
mistress as you wished. But to tell the 
truth, I am not sorry, for the more I think 
about it the less I see what to say. That 
another does not like a person can have 
little weight with one who does, and I 
know nothing against him. I wish you 
would release me from my promise. It is 
jBuch an ugly thing to speak to one's host- 
ess to the disadvantage of a fellow- 
guest ! " 

** I understand," said Malcolm. " It 
was not a right thing to ask of you. I beg 
your pardon, my lady, and give you back 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, 



95 



your promise, if such you count it. But 
indeed I do not tliink you promised." 

" Thank you. I would rather be free. 
Had it been before you left London ! Lady 
Lossie is very kind, but does not seem to 
put the same confidence in me as former- 
ly. She and Lady Bellair and that man 
make a trio, and I am left outside. I al- 
most think I ought to go. Even Caley is 
more of a friend than I am. I cannot get 
rid of the suspicion that something not 
right is going on. There seems a bad air 
about tlie place. Those two are playing 
their game with the inexperience of that 
poor child, your mistress." 
. " I know that very well, my lady, but I 
hope yet they will not succeed," said Mal- 
colm. 

By this time they -were near the tunnel. 

"Could you let me through to the 
shore ? " asked Clementina. 

" Certainly, my lady. I wish you could 
see the boats go out. From the Boar's 
Tail it is a pretty sight. They will all be 
starting together as soon as the tide 
turns." 

Thereupon Clementina began question- 
ing him about the night-fishing, and Mal- 
colm described its pleasures and dangers, 
and the pleasures of its dangers, in such 
fashion that Clementina listened with de- 
light. He dwelt especially on the feeling 
almost of disembodiment, and existence 
as pure thought, arisinoj from the all-per- 
vading clarity and fluidity, the suspension 
and the unceasing motion. 

** I wish I could once feel like that," 
exclaimed Clementina. "Could I not go 
with you — for one night — just for once, 
Malcolm ? " 

" My lady, it would hardly do, I am 
afraid. If you knew the discomforts that 
must assail one unaccustomed — I cannot 
tell — but I doubt if you would go. All 
the doors to bliss have their defences of 
swamps and thorny thickets through which 
alone they can be gained. You would 
need to be a fisherman's sister — or wife 
— J fear, my lady, to get through to this 
one." 

Clementina smiled gravely, but did not 
reply, and Malcolm too was silent, think- 
ing. " Yes," he said at last ; " I see how 
we can manage it. You shall have a boat 
for your own use, my lady, and " 

" But I want to see just what you see, 
and to feel, as nearly as I may, what you 
feel. I don't want a downy, rose-leaf no- 
tion of the thing. I want to 'understand 
what you fishermen encounter and expe- 
rience." 

**Wc must make a difference, though. 



my lady. Look what clothes, what boots, 
we fishers must wear to be fit for our 
work ! But you shall have a true idea as far 
as it reaches, and one that will go a long 
way towards enabling you to understand 
the rest. You shall go in a real fishing- 
boat, with a full crew and all the nets, and 
you shall catch real herrings ; only you 
shall not be out longer than you please. 
But there is hardly time to arrange for it 
to-night, my lady." 

" To-morrow, then ? " 

" Yes. I have no doubt I can manage 
it then." 

" Oh, thank you ! " said Clementina. 
"It will be a great delight." 

"And now," suggested Malcolm, " would 
you like to go through the village and 
see some of the cottages, and how the 
fishers live?*" 

"If they would not think me inquisitive 
or intrusive," answered Clementina. 

" There is no danger of that," rejoined 
Malcolm. " If it were my Lady Bellair, 
to patronize and deal praise and blame, 
as if what she calls poverty were fault and 
childishness, and she their spiritual as 
well as social superior, they might very 
likely be what she would call rude. She was 
here once before, and we have some notion 
of her about the Seaton. I venture to say 
there is not a woman in it who is not her 
moral superior, and many of them are her 
superiors in intellect and true knowledge, 
if they are not so familiar with London 
scandal. Mr. Graham says that in the 
kingdom of heaven every superior . is a 
ruler, for there to rule is to raise, and a 
man's rank is his power to uplift.'.' 

" I would I were in the kingdom of 
heaven if it be such as you and Mr. Gra- 
ham take it for ! " said Clementina. 

"You must be in it, my lady, or you 
couldn't wish it to be such as it is." 

" Can one then be in it, and yet seem to 
be out of it, Malcolm ? " 

" So many are out of it that seem to be 
in it, my lady, that one might well imagine 
it the other way with some." 

" Are you not uncharitable, Malcolm ? " 

" Our Lord speaks of many coming up 
to his door confident of admission, whom 
yet he sends from him. Faith is obedi- 
ence, not confidence." 

" Then I do well to fear." 

"Yes, my lady, so long as your fear 
makes you knock the louder." 

" But if I be in, as you say, how can I 
go on knocking ? " 

"There are a thousand more doors to 
knock at after you are in, my lady. No 
one content to stand just inside the gate 



96 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



will be inside it long. But it is one thing 
to be in, and another to be satisfied that 
we are in. Such a satisfying as comes 
from our own feelings may, you see from 
what our Lord says, be a false one. It is 
one thing to gather the conviction for our- 
selves, and another to have it from God. 
What wise man would have it before he 
gives it.? He who does what his Lord 
tells him is in the kingdom, if every feel- 
ing of heart and brain told him he was 
not. And his Lord will see that he knows 
it one day. But I do not think, my lady, 
one can ever be quite sure until the King 
himself has come in to sup with him, and 
has let him know that he is altogether one 
with him." 

During the talk of which this is the sub- 
stance they reached the Seaton, and Mal- 
colm took her to see his grandfather. 

" Taal and faer and chentle and coot ! " 
murmured the old man as he held her 
hand for a moment in his. With a start 
of suspicion he dropped it, and cried out 
in alarm, " She'll not pe a Cam'ell, Mal- 
colm ? " 

"Na, na, daddy — far frae that," an- 
swered Malcolm. 

" Then my laty will pe right welcome to 
Tuncan's heart," he replied, and taking 
her hand again led her to a chair. 

When they left she expressed herself 
charmed with the piper, but when she 
learned the cause of his peculiar behavior 
at first she looked grave and found his 
feeling difficult to understand. 

They next visited the Partaness, with 
whom she was far more amused than puz- 
zled. But her heart was drawn to the 
young woman who sat in a corner rocking 
her child in its woodeu cradle and never 
lifting her eyes from her needle-work : 
she knew her for the fisher-girl of Mal- 
colm's picture. 

From house to house he took her, and 
where they went they were welcomed. H 
the man was smoking, he put away his 
pipe, and the woman left her work and sat 
down to talk with her. They did the honors 
of their poor houses in a homely and dig- 
nified fashion. Clementina was delightea. 
But Malcolm told her he had taken her 
only to the best houses in the place to be- 
gin with. The village, though a fair sam- 
ple of fishing villages, was no ex-sample, 
he said : there were all kinds of people in 
it as in every other. It was a class in the 
big life-school of the world, whose special 
masters were the sea and the herrings. 

" What would you do now if you were 
lord of the place ? " asked Clementina as 
they were walking by the sea-gate : " I 



mean, what would be the first thing you 
would do ? " 

" As it would be my business to know 
my tenants that I might rule them," he 
answered, " I would first court the society 
and confidence of the best men among 
them. I should be in no hurry to make 
changes, but would talk openly with them, 
and try to be worthy of their confidence. 
Of course I would see a little better to 
their houses, and improve their harbor; 
and I would build a boat for myself that 
would show them a better kind ; but my 
main hope for them would be the same as 
for myself — the knowledge of Him whose • 
is the sea and all its store, who cares for 
every fish in its bosom, but for the fisher 
more than many herrings. * I would spend 
mv best efforts to make them follow Him 
wnose first servants were the fishermen 
of Galilee, for with all my heart I believe 
that that Man holds the secret of life, and 
that only the man who obeys him can ever 
come to know the God who is the root 
and crown of our being, and whom to know 
is freedom and bliss." 

A pause followed. 

" But do you not sometimes find it hard 
to remember God all through your work?" 
asked Clementina. 

" Not very hard, my lady. Sometimes 
I wake up to find that I have been in an 
evil mood and forgetting Him, and then 
life is hard until I get near him again. But 
it is not my work that makes me forget 
him. When I go a-fishing, I go to catch . 
God's fish ; when I take Kelpie out, I am 
teaching one of God's^ wild creatures; 
when I read the Bible or Shakespeare, I 
am listening to the word of God, uttered 
in each after its kind. When the wind 
blows on my face, what matter that the 
chymist pulls it to pieces ? He cannot 
hurt it, for his knowledge of it cannot make 
my feeling of it a folly, so long as he can- 
not pull that to pieces with his retorts and 
crucibles : it is to me the wind of him who 
makes it blow, the sign of something in 
him, the fit emblem of his Spirit, that 
breathes into my spirit the breath of life. 
When Mr. Graham talks to me, it is a 
prophet come from God that teaches me, 
as certainly as if his fiery chariot were 
waiting to carry him back when he had 
spoken ; for the word he utters at once 
humbles and uplifts my soul, telling it that 
God is all in all and my God — and the 
Lord Christ is the truth and the life, and 
the way home to the Father." 

After a little pause, " And when you are 
talking to a rich, ignorant, proud lady,'* 
said Clementina, " what do you feel then ? " 



VOLTAIRE IN THE NETHERLANDS. 



97 



** That I would it were my Lady Clem- 
entina instead/' answered Malcolm with a 
smile. 

She held her peace. 

When he left her, Malcolm hurried to 
Scaurnose and arranged with Blue Peter 
for his boat and crew the next night. Re- 
turning to his grandfather, he found a note 
waiting him from Mrs. Courthope to the 
effect that, as Miss Caley, her ladyship's 
maid, had preferred another room, there 
was no reason why, if he pleased, he 
should not reoccupy his own. 



From Temple Bar. 
VOLTAIRE IN THE NETHERLANDS. 



FROM THE DUTCH OF JHR. C A. 

SYPESTEYN. 



VAN 



Before proceeding to collect a few par- 
ticulars about Voltaire's different journeys 
to Holland, it will be necessary briefly to 
describe those circumstances of his life 
which first induced him to visit that coun- 
tr)*. 

Francois-Marie Arouet was born at 
Paris, November 21st, 1694. His father, 
after having been for many years a notary, 
was treasurer of the Chamber of Accounts 
at Paris ; his mother. Marguerite d'Au 
mard, was of an old noble family. It has 
been said that she possessed a small 
property in Poitou, from which her second 
son derived his name, but modern en- 
quirers have been unable to establish its 
existence, and it appears more probable 
that the name Voltaire was simply an ana- 
tram .of his usual signature, Arouet 1. J. 
(le Jeune.) From his early youth he re- 
ceived an excellent education, and neither 
his father nor his godfather, the Abbd de 
Ch^teauneuf, spared anything to develop 
his extraordinary gifts. The abbd, who 
was much attached to Ninon de I'Enclos, 
introduced the youth to her, and he soon 
became a favorite in her brilliant circle. 
Though of a weak constitution, his mind 
was so precocious that he already wrote 
good poetry at the age of twelve. He was 
accustomed to take for the subject of his 
epigrams his elder brother, who was devel- 
oping into a desperate fanatic, and whom 
he called " mon Jansiniste (U frlre^"* and 
these verses gave the Abbd Le Jay occa- 
sion to say that he would one day be the 
standard-bearer of impiety. When the 
father heard, to his vexation, that his 
younger son was a poet, he exclaimed: 
'* Mv sons arc two madmen ; one in verse, 
and one in prose." The pleasure-loving 

LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 943 



abbd brought his godchild into the com- 
pany of his friends the Due de Sully, the 
Marquis de la Fare, and other gay and 
witty gentlemen, whose greatest amuse- 
ment consisted in the so-called petiis 
soupers. The life which resulted from 
this, added to Voltaire's love of poetry, and 
his dislike to the legal profession, which 
his father wished him to follow, gave rise 
to quarrels between them, and ended in 
his being sent to the Hague, to serve as 
page in the suite of the French ambassa- 
dor, then the Marquis de Chdteauneuf, 
elder brother of the abb^. 

Voltaire arrived at the Hague in Sep- 
tember 1 713, at the age of nineteen. He 
took up his quarters at the French Em- 
bassy, a lai-ge building situated on the 
Prinsessegracht (Boschkant) — the site 
now occupied by the Roman Catholic 
church — and he very soon made a sen- 
sation by his wit, his poetry, and, above 
all, his love adventures. There lived then 
at the Hague a Madame Dunoyer, a clever 
but very singular woman, who had been 
unhappily married in Paris to a French 
nobleman and writer, named Dunoyer, and 
had fled to Holland with her two daugh- 
ters. Originally a strict Protestant she had 
even been imprisoned for two years on ac- 
count of her religion. She abjured it at 
the time of her marriage, but resumed it 
in Holland, where she was living in desti- 
tute circumstances, principally by the 
profits of her pen. Her most lucrative 
publication consisted of certain periodical 
letters, a pretended correspondence be- 
tween two journalists, one in France and 
the other in Holland, which appeared for 
several years at the Ha^ue and at Amster- 
dam, under the title of " La Quintessence 
des Nouvelles Historiques, Critiques, 
Politiques, Morales et Galantes " (princi- 
pally the latter), and of " Le Mercure 
Galant." It was a doubly profitable spec- 
ulation, for she was paid not only for what 
she printed, but also for much that she 
consented to suppress. 

Her youngest daughter, Olympe, who 
went by the name of Mile. Pimpette, was 
a clever, beautiful, and coquettish girl. 
Young Arouet was soon caught in her 
nets, and desperately in love. He com- 
mitted all sorts of follies with a complete 
indifference to the remarks of the inhabi- 
tants of the Hague, and was even on the 
point of eloping with his beloved Olympe, 
at whose feet the painter Schlesinger has 
represented him,* when the mother, who 

• This picture belonged to Mr. Hoffman's collec- 
tion, and is now in the possession of the Baroness de . 
Wassenaer, his daughter. 



98 

seemed to have other plans with her 
daughter, and did not wish to bestow her 
on ** a page like Voltaire," put an end to 
the affair. She complained to the Mar- 
quis de Chateauneuf, who was afraid of the 
writer of the " Lettres Historiques," and 
specially of the " Mercure Galant," and 
who soon, by the strong measures he took, 
showed that he was less indulgent than 
his brother the abb^ had been. He wrote 
a long letter to the father, ending, " I hope 
nothing more from your son now : he is 
twice mad ; in love and a poet." Voltaire's 
departure was immediately decided upon. 
He wrote in despair to Pimpette that all 
he had been able to do was to obtain a de- 
lay, but he was forbidden to leave his 
rooms. He complains bitterly about this 
arrest, and urges her to leave her unnatu- 
ral mother and follow him to France. 
Without her portrait he cannot live, nor 
without her letters to assure him of her 
eternal love. These sentimental effusions 
are accompanied with the prosaic recom- 
mendation to send the shoemaker with 
her letters, as if he came to try on a pair 
of boots. 

The shoemaker apparently accom- 
plished his task, but fourteen letters writ- 
ten by Voltaire to Pimpette, November 
1713 to February 1714, fell into the hands 
of Mme. Dunoyer, who, to the astonish- 
ment of everyone, disregarding the injury 
they did to her daughter's reputation, pub- 
lished them in the "Lettres Historiques." 

The letter received from Olympe called 
forth an answer, in which he asks her for a 
rendezvous to go to Scheveningen, where 
he proposed that they should write letters 
to her father and uncle, to seek for a re- 
treat in Paris. It appears, however, that 
these plans did not succeed, that he was 
unable to leave his rooms, but that Pim- 
pette, disguised as a boy, contrived to ob- 
tain an interview with him. 

Si vous 6tes adorable en cornettes [he after- 
wards wrote to her], ma foi, vous etes un 
aimable eavalicr, et notre portier, qui n'cst 
point amoureux de vous, vous a trouv^ un 
tr6s-joli gar^on. La premiere fois que vous 
viendrez, il vous recevra k merveille. Jc 
crains que vous n'ayez tir^ I'ep^c dans la rue, 
afin qu il ne vous manquat plus rien d'un 
jeune hommc ; apres tout, tout jeune homme 
que vous €tes, vous ^tes sage comme une fille. 

The mother discovered the meeting, and 
again complained to the ambassador, who 
now gave orders that four lackeys instead 
of two should watch over the prisoner. 
Once more Voltaire met his beloved, and 
we may gather from a letter he wrote her 
on the loth of December 1713, that she 



VOLTAIRE IN THE NETHERLANDS. 



received such a reprimand from her 
mother, that she had to remain ill in bed. 
He succeeded, however, in sending her 
letters, full of declarations of love and 
lamentations over the sad situation of the 
two lovers, " the one in bed, and the other 
a prisoner." 

On Monday the 13th of December 1713, 
Voltaire was put in a coach with M. de M. 
and the ambassador's valet Lef^vre, and 
proceeded to Rotterdam. There he was 
taken on board a yacht which lay ready to 
leave for Ghent. From this vessel he 
writes to her on the 19th of Decem- 
ber: — 

Nous avons un beau temps et un bon vent, 
et par-dessus cela de bon vin, de bons pites, 
de bons jambons et de bons 11 ts. Nous ne 
sommcs que nous deux, M. dc M. ct moi, dans 
un grand yacht ; il s'occupe k ecrire, ii manger, 
k boire et k dormir, et moi k pcnser k vous. 
Je ne vous vois point, et je vous jure que je 
ne m*aper9ois pas que je suis dans la com- 
pagnie d'un bon pate et d'un homme d*esprit. 
Ma ch^re Pimpette me manque, mais je me 
flatte qu'elle ne me manquera pas toujours, 
puisque je ne voyage que pour vous faire 
voyager vous-m6me. 

On his return to Paris, Thursday the 
28th of December 1713, Voltaire found his 
father extremely angr}\ A /e/tre de cachet 
lay ready for him, a will in which he was 
quite disinherited was drawn up, and the 
only condition on which the old gentleman 
would hear of a reconciliation was the de- 
parture of his son for an American colony. 
The latter succeeded, however, in obtain- 
ing a delay, provided he would work as 
clerk with zl procureur^ to which condition 
he for a short time submitted. 

From a few letters of Voltaire to Pim- 
pette at this time, we see that he gave him- 
self great trouble to get her over to Paris 
with the help of the clergy on the condi- 
tion that she should change her religion. 
But for this Pimpette was not at all dis- 
posed, and he soon complained of the 
scarcity of her letters. She speedily con- 
soled herself by other love adventures, and 
afterwards married an officer in the French 
army, a Baron de Winterfeld, who in 1736 
came to live in Paris {rue Pldtri^re). 

Voltaire met her again several times, 
and even helped her out of some money 
difficulties. He mentions her once more 
in his answer to his enemy La Beaumelle, 
who had violently attacked his "Si5cle de 
Louis XIV." La Beaumelle had asserted 
that Cavalier, the head of the Cevennes 
insurgents, had been the rival of Voltaire, 
that they had both loved the daughter of 
Mme. Dunoyer, and that, **as might be 



VOLTAIRE IN THE NETHERLANDS. 



99 



expected, the hero had prevailed over the 
poet, and the gentle and agreeable physi- 
ognomy over the wild and wicked one." * 
Voltaire contradicts this as wholly untrue, 
as he did not know Cavalier till the year 
1726, in London, but he admits that Cava- 
lier made the acquaintance of Olympe at 
the Hague, in 1708 (when he himself was 
still a schoolboy), and even proposed to her, 
and was refused. He was at that time col- 
onel in a Dutch regiment, which was partly 
paid by England. Uffenbach, who knew 
Cavalier in London, in 1710, also mentions 
Olympe's beauty, and confirms the account 
of her relations with Cavalier. It is a curi- 
ous coincidence that two men distinguished 
in such very different ways, should both 
have been attached to this frivolous little 
coquette. 

Voltaire did not remain long with the 
frocureur Alain, and he soon became 
entirely immersed in literature. His 
verses were often satirical, and more than 
once brought him into trouble.f It is 
well known what a favorite he was with 
women, and how the great ladies of the 
^me sought him. Thus in 1722, he made 
the acquaintance of a very beautiful wid- 
ow, the Comtesse de Rupelmonde, who 
ex\)ressed the wish to see Belgium and 
Holland. Voltaire was at once ready to 
accompany her, all the more as he could 
then arrange in person the publication of 
his " Henriade " at the Hague. They 
started together, and lodged for some 
time in an h6tel at Brussels, where Jean- 
Baptiste Rousseau was at that time stay- 
ing. Voltaire visited him. At first they 
liked each other, but they parted mortal 
enemies. 

On the 7th of October 1722, Voltaire 
writes a very detailed letter from the 
Hague to the " Pr^sidente de Berni^res " 
about his adventures in Holland, from 
which we borrow the following flattering 
description of the Dutch : — 

Je partirai de la Haye lorsque les beaux 
jours fuiront. II n'y a rien de plus agreable 
que la Haye, quand le soleil daigne s'y mon- 
trer. On ne voit ici que des prairies, des 
canaux, des arbres verts ; c'est un paradis 



* Some curious particulars about Cavalier and Vol- 
taire's interviews with La Beaumelle in 1748, are to be 
found in an article, " Les Lettres de Mme. de Main- 
tenon," in the Revu* d* Deux Mondts of January 
15th, 1869. 

t Suspected of having written a very bitter poem 
against the Due d* Origans, he was put in the Bastille 
in 1717. When he was found to be innocent, he was 
released in i7i8and received a compensation trom the 
duke. ** Monseigneur,'* Voltaire is supposed to have 
said, '• Je remercie V. A. R. de vouloir bien continuer 
i se charger de ma nourriture, mais je la prie de ne 
phis se charger de men logement." ' 



terrestre depuis la Haye jusqu'a Amsterdam. 
J'ai vu avec respect cette ville, qui est le 
magasin de Punivers. II y a plus de raille 
vaisseaux dans le port. De cinq cent mille 
hommes qui habitent Amsterdam il n'y en a 
pas un d'oisif, pas un pauvre, pas un petit- 
maitre, pas un insolent.* Nous rencontrimes 
le pensionnaire k pied, sans laauais, au milieu 
de la populace. On ne voit la personne qui 
ait de cour ^ faire. On ne se met point en 
haie pour voir passer un prince. On ne con- 
nait que le travail et la modestie. II y a ^ la 
Haye plus de magnificence et plus de society 
par le concours des ambassadeurs. J'y passe 
ma vie entre le travail et le plaisir, et je vis 
ainsi ^ la hollandaise et ^ la frangaise. Nous 
avons ici un op^ra detestable ; mais, en revan- 
che, je vois des ministres calvinistes, des 
Arminiens, des Sociniens, des rabbins, des 
Anabaptistes, qui parlent tous k merveille, et 
qui en v^rit^ ont tous raison. 

Not much more is known of this stay of 
Voltaire in the Netherlands, and we soon 
see him reappear in the great world of 
Paris, while Mme. de Rupelmonde con- 
tinued to live at Brussels. 

In 1726, he was obliged to go to En- 
gland, under circumstances well calculated 
to inspire him with a bitter hatred against 
the French aristocracy. When dining at 
the house of the Due de Sully, he hap- 
pened to differ from some statement of the 
Chevalier de Roharu Chabot, who asked in 
a contemptuous tone, " Quel est done ce 
jeune homme qui parle si haut ? " " M. 
le Chevalier," answered Voltaire, "c'est 
un homme qui ne traine pas un grand nom, 
mais qui honore celui qu'il portc ; " or, 
according to' another version, "C'est un 
homme il^ui est le premier de sa race, 
comme vous ^tes le dernier de la votre." 
Rohan, whose life was very open to cen- 
sure, got up in a passion and left the 
house. A few days later, while Voltaire 
was again dining with the Due de Sully, 
he was called from the table, and on com- 
ing down-stairs was seized by two lackeys, 
and beaten with sticks in the presence'of 
Rohan, who was looking on in a carriage, 
and who is said to have cried out, " Frap- 
pez bien fort; mais mdnagez la tete, parce 
qu'il pent encore en sorti'r quelque chose 
de bon plus tard." Voltaire informed his 
host of this affront, but the latter, though 
an old friend, refused to take his part, for 

• In a pamphlet of the time, " Requeste au nom du 
Roy qui demande une place dans le regiment dc la 
Calotte pour Voltaire son confrere." it is said that in 
172a at Amsterdam, Voltaire received blows from a 
few enraged Israelites, because, on a visit to their 
synagogue, he ridiculed their religious ceremonies. 
That Voltaire's statements are not ahvays accurate, we 
may infer from bis estimate of the population of Am- 
sterdam. 



100 



VOLTAIRE IN THE NETHERLANDS. 



which he was punished by the erasure of 
the name of his grandfather, the great 
Sully, from the " Henriade," which was 
about this time published under the name 
of the " Ligne." Voltaire was obliged to 
do himself justice ; he challenged Rohan, 
but was immediately arrested by lettre de 
cachet^ and carried to the Bastille on the 
17th April 1726, and only released on 
promising to go to England. 

During his stay in London, he occupied 
himself mainly with mathematics, and 
made himself familiar with the philosophy 
of Newton, of which he made a more 
special study afterwards at the Leyden 
University. He remained three years in 
London, then returned to Paris, made sev- 
eral journeys, and we find him settled at 
Leyden in 1736, under the assumed name 
of Revol, which he dropped when he found 
the pseudonym was useless. In a letter to 
the crown prince of Prussia (afterwards 
Frederick the Great), with whom he had 
that year entered into an active corre- 
sponnence, he says that he is in a town 
where two simple citizens, Boerhaave and 
's Gravesande attract from four to five 
hundred strangers. He further mentions 
that he is busy arranging an edition of all 
his works at Amsterdam,* and offers his 
services to Frederick, begging him to ad- 
dress the answer to Messrs. Servan et 
d^Arti, at Amsterdam. 

Frederick, who had visited Holland 
several times, answered in a few days : 
" Je m'intdresserai toujours vivement h. ce 
qui vous regarde; et la Hollande, pays 
qui ne m'a jamais d^plu, me deviendra une 
terre sacrt^e puisqu'elle vous contHnt." 

Voltaire was then very busy writing a 
work on the philosophy of Newton, and 
received great assistance from the learned 
's Gravesande. Boerhaave, also, was use- 
ful to him in an illness: "J'ai €\.€ tr^s-ma- 
lade," he writes to Thieriot on the 17th 
January 1737; "je suis venu k Leyde, 
consulter le docteur Boerhaave sur ma 
sant^, et 's Gravesande sur la philosophic 
de Newton." This contradicts the story 
that Boerhaave refused to attend Voltaire 
on the ground " that he would not assist 
any one who denied his Saviour." In the 
same letter he adds that he goes from 
time to time to Amsterdam to his publisher 
Ledet:'*ll ma forcd de loger chez lui, 
quand je viens ^ Amsterdam voir comment 
va la philosophie Newtonienne. II s'est 

♦ The first edition of Voltaire's collected works 
came out in 1728, at P. Gosse and Neaulme's, at the 
Hajiuc. Further editions appeared in 1732 and 173S 
at Amsierdam, in 1740 at Paupie's, at the Hague, and 
in 174 1, 1743, and 1764, at Amsterdam. 



avis^ de prendre pour enseigne la t^te de 
votre ami Voltaire. La modestie qu'il faut 
avoir, defend k ma sinc^rit^ de vous dire 
I'exc^s de considdration qu'on a ici pour 
moi." To the Marquis d' Argens he sends, 
a few days later, a piece about Dutch man- 
ners, called " L*Epitre du fils d'un bourg- 
mestre sur la politesse Hollandaise," in- 
tended to have been published in the 
" Lettres Juives " of D' Argens. This, how- 
ever, did not happen, and unfortunately it 
is now lost. 

Voltaire left Holland for Paris at the 
end of February 1737, and was soon again 
settled at the Chateau de Cirey, with his 
friend the Marquis du Chitelet. From 
there he vvrote a remarkable letter to Pro- 
fessor 's Gravesande. J.-B. Rousseau had 
spread the calumny that Voltaire, being 
driven from France, had gone to the uni- 
versity of Leyden to preach atheism, and 
had even had a public discussion with 
's Gravesande on the existence of God. 
's Gravesande had contradicted this in a 
Dutch newspaper, but Voltaire now com- 
plains that the refutation had not pene- 
trated into France, and that the report had 
reached the highest quarters, and was 
seriously injuring him. He begs 's Grave- 
sande to address himself to the Cardinal 
de Fleury, but the professor, while strenu- 
ously denying the truth of the report, ex- 
cused himself from taking this step, on 
the ground that owing to his retired life, 
his name was not sufficiently known in 
France to have any mfluence ; in fact, that 
he could not suppose people to know that 
there was at Leyden a man " whose name 
began with an apostrophe." Voltaire for- 
warded this letter to the Ducde Richelieu, 
who showed it to Cardinal de Fleury, and 
the minister De Maurepas, and it appears 
to have answered its purpose. 

In 1739 Voltaire resolved to visit the 
Netherlands, with his friend Mme. du 
Chitelet, principally because her presence 
was required at Brussels for a lawsuit be- 
tween her and the Comte de Honsbroek, 
about an inheritance left her by her uncle, 
the Marquis de Trichdteau. At Brussels 
they were received with open arms, and 
Voltaire and his friend soon became the 
favorite guests of the D'Arembergs and 
Chimays. The journey to Holland was 
given up for the present, and they re- 
mained some time at Brussels. Prince 
Frederick of Prussia had about that time 
written a remarkable book, " L'Anti-Ma- 
chiavel," and had submitted the manu- 
script to the judgment of Voltaire in Jan- 
uary 1740. The latter occupied himself 
raX once with the publication of the book, 



VOLTAIRE IN THE NETHERLANDS. loi 

with which he was greatly pleased. He dessaisirait jamais pour quelque avantage que 

promised to look over it carefully, write a ce pOt €tre, qu'il avait commence Timpression, 

preface, and, at the prince's request, not to n"'Jl ^a finirait. Quand je vis que j'avais k 

mention the author's name. The corre- ^/^^^ ^ "" Hollandais qui abusait de la liberte 

spondence about the publication with the f,^ ^ pays,.et k un libraire qui poussait k 

Dutch bookseller Van Duren began the IJ^ZttZ rZi^t^^ 

^ e r .-. J j'^au pouvant ici Conner mon secret a personne, ni 

1st of June 1740, and, according as the implorer le secours de I'autorit^, je me souvins 

manuscript was revised by Voltaire, it was que Votre Majesty dit. dans un des chapitres 

sent from Brussels to the publisher and de "L'Anti.Machiavel,"gu'il est permis d'em- 

printed.* In the mean time King Fred- ployer quelque honn^te ftnesse en fait de n^- 

erick William had died the 31st of May ^ociation. Je dis done k Jean van Duren que 

1740, and Frederick the Second mounted je ne venais que pour corriger quelqucs pages 

the throne at the age of twenty-eight. He ^^ manuscrit. -'Tres-volontiers, monsieur," 

remained the same friendly correspondent ^^ ^V^* "si vous voulez venir chez moi, je 

with Voltaire, but wished now that the T".?, ^^ c^nfierai genereusement. feuille k 

" Anti.Mnrhinv^l » <;hn.,lH nof 1.^ nnh. ^^"'"^ ^ Y^"^ comgcrez ce qu il vous plaira, 




1 

nacl WW «..«w».»»^ ... g,v.^v,«...^ *.^,... , v/iv».iv, onre coraiaic ; j aiiai cnez lui et je corrig_„. 
who the unknown writer was, and who in en effet quelques feuilles qu'il reprenait k 
consequence expected large profits,! was mesure, et qu'il lisait pour voir si je ne le 
determined not to stop the publication, and trompais point. Lui ayant inspire par \k un 
Voltaire accordingly thought it necessary peu moins de defiance, je suis retourn^ au- 
to go in person to ^the Hague, where he jourd'hui dans la mame prison oh il m'a 
arrived on the 17th of June 1740. On the ^"^erm^ de mame, et ayant obtenu six chapi- 

20th of the same month he tells Frederick [[^rJ^ T P"""'. •^''- ^^f "^''°"^«''» ^ H ^' 

«* k:^ «^»^^u»^^<. ^«,^«« fU^ ri„«.«u ratures de facon, et 1 ai ecnt dans les inter- 

of his experiences among the Dutch : — Hgncs de si horribles galimatias et des coq-^i- 

Un peuple libre et mercenaire Vine si ridicules, que cela ne ressemble plus k 

Vegetant dans ce coin de tcrre, "", ouvrage. Cela s'appelle faire sauter son 

Et vivant toujours en balteau, vaisseau en Tair pour n'etre point pris par 

Vend aux voyagcurs I'air et I'eau, I'ennemi. J'etais au d^sespoir de sacrificr un 

Quoique tous deux n'y valcnt gulre. si bel ouvrage ; mais enfin j'ob^issais au roi 

L^, plus d'un fripon de libraire que j'idolitre, etje vous reponds que i'y allais 

Debite ce qu'il n'entend pas, ae bon coeur. Qui est ^tonn^ k present, et 

Comme fait un precheur en chaire, confondu ? c'est mon vilain. J'espfere demain 

Vend de I'esprit de tous ^tats, faire avec lui un march^ honnSte et le forcer 

El fait passer en Germanie ^ ^^ rendre Ic tout, manuscrit et imprim^, 

Une cargaison de romans et je continuerai k rendre compte k Votre 

Et d'insipides sentiments Majeste. 

Que toujours la France a foumie. . - , , . ,r t . 

•' A few days later Voltaire writes that 

" That scoundrel of a Jean van Duren," with the help of lawyers he is negotiating 

as Voltaire called him, refused, and appar- with Van Duren, and he adds that either 

ently with good reason, to return the man- the work must be entirely suppressed, or 

uscript, which was already half printed, as else it must appear in a form worthy of 

he now wanted to publish the book to pay its author, and Frederick replied that the 

its expenses. book was not yet worthy of being pub- 

What follows gives no favorable idea of lished, and that it had to be thoroughly 

Voltaire's honesty and morality in the recast. 

means he chose to obtain an object — In the mean time Van Duren, who had 

, . . . had all tne illegible sentences restored by 

En effet [he writes] le SUIS venu i temps ; le a French corrector, La Martini^re, con- 

scelcrat avait deii re us^ de rendre une page tinued printing, and Frederick reluctantly 

du manuscrit. Je I'envoyai • chercher, le le ^^u^:^^ ^^ *uL „.,ur *- ^ ^ 

sondai, jeletournaide tous les sens ;il me fit f,"^"? ^^ ^^ ^^'^ publication, and says: 

entendre que, maltre du manuscrit, il ne s'en " ^^'^^^ ^^^^ .»"^"^e»' la presse puisqu il le 

^ faut, pour punir la scdl^ratesse d'un misd- 

• Vc;ltaire a.ked forno honorarium, but stipulated '*^^^^- R^yez, changez, COrrigez et rem- 

only for four dozen well-bound copies, two dozen of plaCCZ tOUS les endroitS qu ll VOUS plaira. 

theM bound in red morocco to be sent *'i la cour Je m'en remets k votre disccrnement." 

^ t >?oit\^i?e Sim^Tw^/to w^^ He wrote, He was, however, not much pleased with 

mmong other thim 




profiter." And again, " Si vous ne me rrfponde* pas, Uuring his three weeks' Stay 

iromtea bon que je gratific un autre de ce pr^nt." Hague, Voltaire made attempts, in the 



102 



VOLTAIRE IN THE NETHERLANDS. 



name of Frederick, to persuade the Ley- 
den professors 's Gravesande and Muss- 
chenbroek to enter the Prussian service, 
promising them great consideration and 
large emoluments. Neither could be per- 
suaded to leave their country, which is all 
the more creditable to them, as Voltaire, 
to the surprise of most people, had at once 
succeeded with the French savant Mau- 
pertuis, the great friend of *s Gravesande. 
Besides these transactions Voltaire mixed 
much with politicians at the Hague, and 
he writes to Frederick that he had heard 
secret rumors of his coming. 

J'ai de plus cntendu dire que ce voyage 
pourrait 6tre utile aux int^rets de Votre Ma- 
leste. Tout ce que je sais c'cst que si votre 
numanite vient ici, elle gagnera les coeurs tout 
Hollandais quMIs sont. Votre Majest^ a d6}k 
ici de grands partisans. 

Voltaire returned to Brussels on the 9th 
of August, and remained until he went to 
Cleves on the nth of September 1740, 
where Frederick met him for the first 
time, and begged him to take charge of a 
new edition of the " Anti-Machiavel " at 
the Hague. He was very reluctant to 
return to Holland, as appears from a let- 
ter which he wrote on the i8th of Sep- 
tember to his friend Maupertuis. 

Quand nous partSmes tous deux de Cloves, 
et que vous prites k droite et moi k gauche, 
je crus etre au jugement dernier oil le bon 
Dieu sdpare ses elus des damn^s. Divus 
Frcdericus vous dit, " Asseyez-vous k ma 
droite dans Ic paradis dc Berlin," et k moi, 
** Allez, maudit, en Hollande." Je suis dans 
cet cnfer fiegmatique, loin du feu divin qui 
anime les Frederic, les Maupertuis, les Alga- 
rotti. Pour Dieu, faitcs-moi la charit^ de 
quelques ^tincellcs dans les eaux croupissantes 
ou je suis morfondo. 

This was wfitten in a moment of bad 
temper, such as Voltaire frequently in- 
dulged in. There are sufficient proofs to 
show that he had no real dislike to Hol- 
land. 

Voltaire superintended the new edition 
at the publisher Paupie's, and had to carry 
on a lawsuit against Van Duren, who 
maintained that by the laws of Holland 
the bookseller who brought the book out 
first, acquired an exclusive right to sell it. 

On the 7th October, Voltaire wrote to 
the king of Prussia, " J'attends que j'aie 
bien mis les choses en train pour quitter 
le champ de bataille, et m'en retourner 
aupr^s de mon autre monarque k Bru- 
xelles." This was Madame du Chdtelet, 
who was still occupied with her lawsuit, 
and for whom Voltaire had asked Fred- 



erick's aid. Frederick had answered, " SI 
je puis, je ferai marcher la tortue de 
Breda," meaning William IV., Prince of 
Orange, who then lived chiefly at Breda 
and at Leeuwarden. 

Je suis en attendant [the letter goes on to 
say] dans votre palais ou M. de Raesfeld [the 
ambassador] m*a donn^ un appartement sous 
le bon plaisir de Votre Majeste. Votre palais 
de la Haye est Tembl^me des grandeurs hu- 
maines. 

Sur des planches pourris, sous des toits d^- 
labr^s 
Sont des 2l|)partements dignes de notre 
maitre ; 
Mais malheur aux lambris dor^s 
Qui n'ont ni porte ni fen6tre ! 
Je vois dans un grenier les armures antiques, 
Les rondaches ct les brassards 
Et les charni^res des cuissarts. 
Que portaicnt aux combats vos ai'eux hero- 
'iques. 
Leurs sabres tout rouillds sont ranges dans 
ces licux, 
Et les bois vermoulus de leurs lances gothiques, 
Sur la terre couches, sont en poudre comme 
eux. 

II y a aussi des livres que les rats seuls ont 
lu depuis cinquantc ans, et qui sont converts 
des plus larges toiles d'araign^es de I'Europe, 
dc peur que les profanes n'en approchcnt. 

Si les piSnates de ce palais pouvaient parler, 
ils vous diraient sans doute : — 

Se peut-il que ce roi, que tout le monde ad- 
mire, 

Nous abandonne pour jamais, 

Et QuM neglige son palais 
Quand il rt^tablit son empire ? 

The building then used for the Prussian 
embassy at the Hague was known as the 
" Oude Hof " or Old Court, and is now 
the palace of the king of the Netherlands. 
Built by William Goudt, reccveur-ghi^ral 
of Holland, it passed after his death into 
different hands, and was at length bought 
by the States of Holland, in 1595, for the 
aoode of Louise de Coligny, the widow of 
William the Silent, who fived there till her 
death. It was then purchased by her son 
Frederick Henry, who considerably en- 
larged and restored it. His widovV, Ama- 
lia van Solm?, remained in the^ same 
building till her death. At the death, in 
1702, of Prince William III., king o^f En- 
gland, great disputes arose about his 
inheritance, specially between his cousin 
Johan Willem Friso, stadtholder of Furies- 
land, Groningcn, and Drenthe, whom (Wil- 
liam had appointed his heir, and P^red- 
erick L, king of Prussia, who based) his 
claims on the will of his grandfather, Fb-ed- 
erick Henry, Prince of Orange. Wlhen 
these disputes were settled, the king/ ao- 



VOLTAIRE IN THE NETHERLANDS. 



103 



quired several possessions in the Nether- ni ne mange parce que les Hollandais veulent 

lands, among others the house at Hond- ii Irop bon march* la lerre d'un grand roi. 11 

sholredijk, and the old court in the f'"' paurlant, sire, s'accouiumer i voir les 

Noordeiade. The widow of Prince Wil- HaH^ndajs aimer 1 argent amaitque je vous 

liam IV. of Orange, Princess Anna of """■ 

England, bought in 1754 all this property Quand quitterai-je, h^las, celte humide pro- 

— with the exception of Meurs, Lingen, _ ^""^' . 

and Monlfoort — back from the great Po"' vo.r mon hrfros et mon prince ? 

Frederick for 700,000 S., besides 5,000 fl. The negotiation mentioned in this letter 

for furniture. probably refers to the sale of Frederick's 

Inconsequence of a pressing inviUtion Dutch possessions, which was accom- 

from the king, Voltaire left the Hacue in pUshed in January. 1754. Count PodewiUs 

the beginning of November for Berlin, „as the successor of M. de Raesfeld. 

where he arrived on the 12th or 13th, but Through the favor of the wife of one of 

we find him again at the Hague on the Z7lh [he chief members of the State, with whom 

December. Going from thence in a ship, he was in love, he succeeded in obtaining 

probably by Antwerp to Brussels, he was copies of all the secret resolutions o[ their 

delayed by ice and an adverse wind for High Mightinesses, which Voltaire for- 

twelvc days on the Zeeland nvers. He warded to France. 

dates a letter to Frederick, " Dans un Frederick answers on the 30th of July : 

vaisseau sur les c6tes de la ZSlande, ou , j j / 

i'enrage." 31st December 1740, and ar- Je voua enyme e passe-port pour dra che- 

tives on the qth January at Madame du ""* '""^^ ^'\j^ ' '"'pressement. Ce ne 

Chitelefs a, Brussels .' The following ^^XnTi^rvt-'usTrefrc^^^r^E^S^ 

years Voltaire spent cliieny at Brussels, ouverts. 
though he made occasional excursions to 

Paris or to the Chateau de Cirey. VolUire mixed a great deal in society 

The death of Cardinal de Fleury, in at the Hague, and had frequent inter- 
January 1743, made a gre.tt change in the course, among others, with the celebrat- 
court and politics of France. A desire ed poet William van Haren, a deputy of 
grew up for a closer connection with Prus- Friesland in the States- General. The !at- 
sia, and in order lo attain it the minister ter, with his brother Onno Zwier, had put 
De Maurepas thought of takingadvanCagc himself at the head of the party who 
of Voltaire's influenceover hisroyal friend, wanted lo force the government of the 
A secret mission 'to Berlin was entrusted republic lo assist Maria Theresa, queen 
to Voltaire, who left Paris the 14th June o£ Hungary, with troops as well as with 
1743, and went by Brussels to the Hague, money. A large party, and especially 
where he remained till the end of August, those republicans who dreaded [he ap- 
and stopped again at the Old Court, of pointment of a sladiholder, objected to 
which he gives a description somewhat this step, on the ground Ihat it would in- 
similar to the former, on 28th June 1743. evitably lead lo a. war, not only with Prus- 

c „:k^.,.„ i,,t,k,.:. sia, but witli France, and also to a revival 

Sous vos m^EniEiques JamUns , ' , . , . , , , . ,-.,., 

Tiis-doris autrefois, maintcnant irts-pourris, «' 1"^ sladlholdership, a prediction which 

Emblime et monument des grandeurs de ee was in fact verified in 174JI Van Haren, 

monde, by his eloquent speeches, but especially 

O mon matire, je vous icris by his poem,* conlribuied largely to the 

Navri d'unedoulcurpiofondcl resolution of their High Mightinesses to 

- dans voire VieilleCour; assist Austria with twenty thousand men, 

: veux une cour nouvdie, commanded by the infantry^eneral, Wil- 

ur oh les ana ore fix* leur sijour, y^^^ Maurice, Count of Nassau-Ouwer- 

Une cour oJi mon^r(» les suit et Us appelle ^^^^ Voltaire learnt all the most secret 

Env?v«™mt,f Ve°B:^ et je'pars d*s ce jour. particulars about the equipping and orders 

, ' . . , , 1, I 1. J D 1 for the Iroop.f, and communicated them to 

J attends done i la Have.^c^^^^^^^ ,^ French minister ol war. D'Argenson. 

I^ln'de Votrell Jes,* He was perfectly satisfied ^ilh his'' life at 

Je suis ici chei voire digne et aimable 'be Hague, as he writes to Thieriot : " Je 

ministre, qui est inconsolable, el qui nc don mfine ici une vie d^licieuse, dont les agr6- 

ments ne sont combaiius que par le regret 

• A contFmpotaiy wrii»: "I) vi i la Hayei 11 »i que m'inspirent mes amis." 

durc^ de bmuillcr 1» Ejat<-«n;rai.i df Holl»ndc 

ItH rAu'lnchc'" II Is taid alui that he owed thig * He nrnte (a hil cnuiin Van Grorealiul, " J'aj iail 

niwaa to IhB influcDcc of Undaiiie de Chtieaiuaui.. lercr uvkb homowi par j pteet eo ven." 



fi. 



104 



VOLTAIRE IN THE NETHERLANDS. 



To D*ArgensoQ he gives a more de- 
tailed description : — 

II y a ici des hommes tr^s-estimablcs. La 
Haye est un s^jour delicieux I'^t^, et la liberty 
y rend les hivers moins rudes. J'aime k voir 
les mattres de TEtat simples citoyens. II y a 
des partis, et il faut bien qu'il y en ait dans 
une r^publique ; mais I'esprit de parti n'6te 
rien k Tamour de la patrie, et je vois de grands 
hommes opposes k dc grands hommes. 

Je suis bien aise, pour I'honneur de la poesie, 
que CO soit un poete qui ait contribu^ ici k 
procurer des secours k la rcine de Hongrie, et 
que la trompette de la guerre ait ^t^ la tr^s- 
humble servante de la lyre d'Apollon. Je vois 
d*un autre cdt^, avec non moins d'admiration, 
un des principaux mcmbres de TEtat dont le 
syst^me est tout pacifique marcher k pied sans 
domestiques, habiter une maison faite pour 
ces consuls romains qui fesaient cuire leurs 
legumes, depenser k peine deux mi lie florins 
pour sa personnc et en donncr plus de vingt 
millc k des families indigentes; ces grands 
exemples ^chappent k la plupart des voya- 
geurs; mais, ne vaut-il pas micux voir de 
telles curiosit^s que les processions de Rome, 
les r^colets au Capitole et le miracle de Saint- 
Janvier ? Des hommes de bien, des hommes 
de g^nie, \oi\k mes miracles. Ce gouverne- 
ment-ci vous plairait infinimcnt, meme avec 
les defauts qui en sont inseparables. 11 est 
tout municipal, et \o\\k ce que vous aimez. 
Le Haye d'ailleurs est le pays des nouvelles et 
des livres ; c*est proprement la ville des am- 
bassadeurs ; leur soci^t^ est toujours tr6s-utile 
k qui veut s'instruire. On les voit tous en un 
jour. On sort, on rentre chcz soi ; chaque 
rue est une promenade ; on peut se montrcr, 
sc retirer tant qu'on veut. C'est Fontaine- 
bleau, ct point de cour k faire. 

Voltaire's praises of Van Haren are gen- 
uine, and are confirmed by his later letters 
and by the following poem : — 

STANCE A M. VAN HAREN, DEPUTE DES 
ETATS-GENERAUX, 1 743. 

Demosth^ne au conseil, et Pindare au Par- 
nasse, 

L'auguste v^rit^ marche devant tes pas ; 
Tyrtce a dans ton sein repandu son audace, 

Et tu tiens sa trompette, organe des combats. 

Je nc puis t'imiter, mais j'aime ton courage 

N^ pour la liberte, tu pcnses en h^ros : 
Mais qui naquit sujet ne doit penser qu*en 
sage, 
Et vivrc obscurement, s*il veut vivre en 
repos. 

Notre esprit est conforme aux lieux qui Pont 
vu naitre ; 

A Rome on est esclave, k Londres citoyen. 
Ia grandeur d'un Batave est de vivre sans 
-- mattre ; 

Et mon premier devoir est de servir le mien. 

Voltaire's friends warned him that it 



would have been safer for a Frenchman to 
make the last lines, if not the whole verse, 
somewhat less pointed. I n consequence of 
a remonstrance from the Marquis de F^- 
nelon, then ambassador at the Hague, he 
replaced the two middle lines of the last 
stanza, by the following : — 

Tout c'tat a ses mceurs et tout homme a son 
lien, 
Ta gloire, ta vertu, est de vivre sans maitre ; 

and put the word " chdrir " instead of " ser- 
vir," in the last line. A Dutchman also 
had sent Voltaire a number of observations, 
which the latter answered shortly on the 
margin, adding : ** Style HoUaudais ; cent 
paroles pour une." 

To M. Thieriot Voltaire writes soon 
after, on the i6th of August : — 

Ne vous meprenez plus sur le nom d'un 
hommc qui sera immortel dans ce pays-ci. 
Cc n'est point van Hyden, c'est van llaren 
qu'il s'appellc. II lui est arriv^ la m^me 
chose qu'k Hom^re ; on gagnait sa vid k reciter 
ses vers aux portes des temples et des villes; 
la multitude court apr^s lui quand il va k Am- 
sterdam. On I'a grav^ avec cette belle in- 
scription : "Quae canit ipse fecit." Vous ne 
sauriez croire combicn cette fadaise [the above 
stanzas] par laquclle j'ai repondu k ses poll- 
tesses et k ses amities, m'a concilia ici Ics 
esprits. On en a imprim^ plus de vingt tra- 
ductions. II n'est rien tel que Vk propos. 

Voltaire*s praises of Van Haren seem to 
have given rise to a wish on the part of 
France to buy his services ; at least, Vol- 
taire writes to the French minister for 
foreign affairs : — 

A regard de M. van Haren, il faut le re- 
garder comme un homme incorruptible, mais 
il parait aimer la gloire ct les ambassades. II 
voulait allcr en Turquie ; c*est de \k que j'ai 
pris occasion de lui represcnter qu'il trouve- 
rait plus d'amis ct d'approbateurs a Paris qu*i 
Constantinople. Cette id^e a paru le flatter. 
On pourrait en faire usage, en cas que les yeux 
des Hollandais commen^asscnt k s'ouvrir sur 
la ridicule injustice d'attaquer la France, sous 
pretexte d'un secours qu ils ont refuse k la 
reine de Hongrie quand elle en avait besoin, 
et qu'ils lui donnent quand elle peut s*en 
passer. En ce cas, van Haren pouvant avec 
honneur employer k la conciliation les talents 
qu'il a consacr^s k la discorde, I'csperance 
d'etre nomm^ ambassadeur en France, malgr^ 
i*usage qui Ten exclut, comme Frison, pourrait 
le flatter ct le determiner k servir la cause de 
la justice et de la raison. 

The reason why Van Haren, whose 
money matters were in great confusion, 
wished to go to Constantinople, was that 
it was then the only place where an am- 
bassador could make a large fortune in a 
short time ; but he went neither to Con- 



PAULINE. 



105 



stantinople nor to Paris. He was sent in 
1748 as ambassador to Brussels, where he 
died in 1768. 

Voltaire left the Hague on the 22nd 
August 1743, for Berlin, and he does not 
seem to have kept up any correspondence 
with Van Haren, or indeed with any other 
Dutchman, if we except some purely sci- 
entific letters to 's Gravesande. He visit- 
ed the Hague once more in October 1745, 
but the war soon afterwards broke out, 
and as far as we have been able to ascer- 
tain, he. never again made a stay there. 
One more edition of all his works ap- 
peared at Amsterdam in 1764. 

We know that Voltaire stayed, in 17 13, 
at the French Embassy, Boschkant, and 
in 1740 and 1743 at the Old Court in the 
Noordeinde, but of the place of his resi- 
dence during his earlier visits to the 
Hague, in 1722, 1736, and 1737, little or 
nothing is known, except that he once 
stayed with Mr. Pailleret, wine-merchant 
in the Hoogstraat, whose wife spent a 
great deal of money on her dress. Pail- 
leret asked him for a few lines of remem- 
brance at parting, and Voltaire wrote 
down the following : — 

Que Pailleret aime sa femme, jc n*en doute, 
Puisque pour ThabiUer il a fait trois banque- 
routes. 

It will probably always remain a riddle 
whether or not Voltaire, on leaving Hol- 
land, pronounced the famous words, 
" Adieu canaux, canards, canaille." Some 
attribute them to Boileau, others to a 
French banished general, who suffered 
much from the gout in Holkind, and was 
extremely glad to return to France. It 
scarcely agrees with the enthusiasm Vol- 
taire was accustomed to express for the 
character, manners, and customs of the 
Dutch, but it must not be forgotten that 
he was very versatile and impressionable 
by nature, and that he left Holland after a 
violent quarrel with Dutch booksellers. 



PAULINE. 
BLUNDELLS AYE. 

CHAPTER XXI. 



AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 

Yet think not that he comes below 
The modern average ratio ; 
The current coin ot fashion^ s mint. 
The common ballroom-going stint. 
Of trifling cost his stock-in-trade is 
Whose business is to please the ladies, 
Or who to honors may aspire 
Of a town beau or dandy squire. 

A YOUNG woman does not fly from the 
dinner-table, while yet the second course 



is circling round, without provoking com- 
ment ; and many and varied were the 
interpretations put upon Pauline's behav- 
ior. 

What a pity that she should be so deli- 
cate ! What an unfortunate thing ner- 
vousness was 1 The weather was trying. 
Lady Finch brought forward a headache 
on her own account; and Mrs. Wyndham, 
not to be outdone, averred that she had 
felt unequal to being out of her room the 
whole afternoon. 

To Mr. Fennel, however, was due the 
happy suggestion of the evening. 

It was wholly, entirely, and gloriously 
his own : and it was acknowledged at once, 
and by universal consent, to be the most 
rational explanation that had been given 
of the unfortunate contretemps. No won- 
der he was proud of it. No wonder he 
repeated it, with increased faith in his 
own genius, and glory in his success, 
when he rode over to the Grange on the 
following morning, to make the proper 
inquiries. 

Mrs. Wyndham was alone in the draw- 
ing-room, and accordingly to her he ad- 
dressed himself. 

"It was the venison now, wasn't it.^" 
said he. " I know lots of ladies can't 
stand a haunch. It is so — so — not 
unpleasant, you know, because venison 
can't be unpleasant. And what a haunch 
it was I Splendid ! But then there is 
something peculiar, you know, something 
unlike anything else about a haunch, and 
it was carried past just the moment be- 
fore. So, then, I made up my mind it was 
at the bottom of the mischief." 

"It might have been, Mr. Fennel. My 
dear niece is certainly excessively sus- 
ceptible. So am I ; and so are all our 
family. We are (\\x\it foolishly particular ; 
it really becomes a misfbrtune. I am 
surprised, I own," apologetically, "that 
Miss La Sarte was the only sufferer last 
night. I am most thankful, I assure you, 
that I was too far off to be endangered. 
With good kind Sir John sitting by my 
side — the donor, you understand ; the 
haunch came from him — it would really 
have been awkward. And over little 
accidents of this kind, over faintness, one 
has no manner of control. It is all 
nerves, you know, nerves. There can be 
nothing disagreeable, nothing in any way 
offensive, about venison, park venison, 
too," continued the lady, feeling as if she 
must emphasize the difference ; " but un- 
fortunately it is not a question of argu- 
ment — it is an effect on the imagination 
too subtle to be analyzed." 



io6 



PAULINE. 



This was quite good enough sense for 
Mr. Fennel, who was willing to be sup- 
ported in any way agreeable to his com- 
panion. 

" It is a pity, isn't it?" said he; "be- 
cause, you see, we can't do without veni- 
son, although certainly we might " 

"Oh, fie!" exclaimed she, briskly; 
" you are not going to say you could do 
without us poor women ? I should never 
have expected this iromjfoUf Mr. Fennel ! 
I should not indeed !^^ 

He protested, she feigned to be exasper- 
ated afresh ; he explained, she would mis- 
understand ; he apologized, and she was 
content. 

All this was amusing enough to Mrs. 
Wyndham, who was never belter pleased 
than when carrying on a nonsensical ban- 
ter, and who was as confident of her 
charms as any belle in her first season; 
but it began shortly to pall on the young 
man. 

He wondered why Miss La Sarte did 
not appear. He began to look out of the 
window, tap his boots with his cane, and 
exhibit other signs of restlessness. 

" You are surprised that my niece should 
choose that walk, I daresay," commented 
Mrs. Wyndham, who, while following the 
direction of his eyes, had been indulging 
in a tirade against damp avenues, dead 
leaves, and cTosed-in grounds. "It is a 
foolish whim, and so I tell her. So many 
nicer places as there are to be had, it is 
really odd, and imprudent too. But we 
women never are prudent ; that, you know, 
is proverbial. We leave prudence, like all 
the sterner virtues, to your sex. Pauline 
is not to be turned from her own way, 
when once her heart is set upon it. I told 
her, warned her; 1 should not be sur- 
prised " (with a bright idea) " if, after all, 
it was not more of a chill, caught out of 
doors on such a miserable afternoon as 
yesterday, than the venison I A chill ! I 
have no doubt about it, now. Foolish 
girl ! And there she is in it again, at this 
moment I " 

" Where 1 " cried he eagerly, " where ?" 

" That scarlet dot among the trees. That 
is her red shawl. Now that the branches 
arc bare, one can see a long way down the 
walk." 

He gasped with dismay. 

Did she know he was there ? Did she 
not mean to come in ? Worse than all, 
had she gone out to avoid him ? 

It certainly appeared so, and yet he 
could not yield the point without a strug- 
gle. He had not passed that way, and as 



he had not seen her, it was quite possible 
that neither had she seen him. 

" Really, it is a foolhardy thing to 
do!" 

As Mrs. Wyndham spoke, she moved 
towards the bell, but, divining her purpose, 
her companion forestalled her, stammering 
with eagerness. 

" Now, do send me," cried he. " It's 
— it's really awfully bad, you know ; and 
ril tell her you said so. 'Pon my word I 
will, and I'll bring her in, too. She can't 
help coming, if you send for her, can 
she ? " 

He was ofiE, ere she could stop him. 

" Now, Miss La Sarte, this is too bad of 
you ; 'pon my word it is, now ! Your aunt 
IS awfully put out about it — she really is ; 
and she sent me to bring you in, you 
know ; and I told her that I would." 

" Why should I come in ? " 

" Because — ^oh ! well, I don't know. I 
came to bring you, I did indeed. Mrs. 
Wyndham sent me. But, after all, it's 
very jolly here," continued the faithless 
messenger; "and I don't see why we 
should go in, 'pon my word I don't. Or, 
we might go to the garden, mightn't we, 
and then she couldn't mind that, could 
she ? " 

" To the garden I What should we do 
there ? " 

" What should we do there ? " echoed 
he, with a cheerful laugh. " Ha ! ha 1 ha I 
What should we do there ? " 

She stared at him. 

"That was so good," he continued, 
adapting his pace to hers, with a comfort- 
able settling-down to companionship. 
" There's no reason in the world why we 
should go ; and as for your aunt, I dare- 
say she has forgotten all about it by this 
time. It's ever so much pleasanter out, 
isn't it ? And I think this is the nicest 

walk I ever saw, 'pon my What is 

the matter ? " 

"Nothing. I thought I heard some 
one." 

"Did you? Oh no; Mrs. Wyndham 
would never send again. I am sure she 
wouldn't ; for I told her I would bring 
you — and so I should, only, you see, you 
wouldn't come." 

Louder came the sound of wheels. Her 
heart seemed to be beating in her throat, 
and every limb trembled. She knew — 
she had known since morning — that 
there was still something left to hope, to 
wait for; and wait she would. The car- 
riage, which had passed at an early hour 
through the grounds, was now returning. 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



107 



Too soon, too soon, she feared, for any 
good news ; but if the worst bad to be 
learnt, she must hear it then and there. 

Oh, what should she do to get rid of 
her tormentor ? 

" Can I ask you to take the trouble to 
go up to the house for me ? It is only to 
tell my aunt that — that — that — (what 
message could be framed on the spur of 
the moment?) that, as she dislikes my 
being here, we will go to the garden or 
come in." 

" Oh ! not * come in,* " pleaded he. 

Furthermore, if the young lady was so 
docile, what need of a forerunner r Quick 
as thought, she saw, corrected her mis- 
take, and yielded the point. 

** We will go to the garden then." 

Oh, joy 1 He turned the corner ere the 
carriage came in sight, and she stood by 
the wayside, alone. 

She was right, so far. It was Dr. Tyn- 
dalPs brougham ; and with a gesture she 
bade the coachman draw uf. But the 
inside was empty. 

** Where is your master ? " 

" Stopped at Blundellsaye, miss." 

" Is he to be there long ? " with a gleam 
of hope. 

" To be called for at five, unless he 
sends word, which is to be left at the 
lodge." 

" How is Mr. Blundell ? " 

" Not so bad as yesterday, miss." 

When Mr. Fennel reappeared, the car- 
riage was out of view, and Pauline met 
him with a smile. 

He could not now provoke her. The 
few moments of unbroken Quiet his ab- 
sence had procured, had sufficed to com- 
pose and soothe ; and with a grateful 
spirit she rose above every trifling annoy- 
ance. 

Now, she felt, was the opportunity given 
to atone for previous neglect, and to wipe 
out, if possible, reminiscences which might 
have given rise to suspicion. 

The reminiscences of her present com- 
panion were not, it is true, likely to be 
troublesome in themselves ; but that was, 
unfortunately, no guarantee that they 
should not be indirectly mischievous — that 
they should not be imparted to other more 
appreciative ears. Daily is the electric 
spark of intelligence passed through non- 
conducting lips. They feel not, they dis- 
cern not, what they touch; but in its 
naked truth the message is conveyed, 
and only when it gains its destined point, 
the shock is felt, the work is done. 

On this Pauline ruminated. 

•* Who has she got hold of now ? " said 



Mrs. Jermyn, as she and Charlotte came 
in sight of the pair, having driven over to 
luncheon. "It is Mr. Fennel, I do be- 
lieve ! " 

" It is I " cried Charlotte. " Poor Pau- 
line ! Little Fennel in cold blood is 
rather too much of a good thing. At a 
ball or dinner-party he is passable, but be- 
fore two o'clock ! " 

" Ay, before two o*clock ! What can 
have brought him here before two o'clock ? 
I think Pauline must be a most artful girl. 
To make an appointment with a young 
man 



I) 



** Oh, nonsense, mamma ! Do you think 
any human being could be so insane as to 
make an appointment with Little Fennel? 
He has come to call, and she has rnet him, 
and is taking him up to the house, that 
is all. Poor little chick ! He is as happy 
as possible. Look at the little head going, 
and the little shoulders bobbing, and the 
little arms turned in, and the little toes 
turned out. What a little piece of absurd- 
ity it is, from beginning to end 1 And 
how angry it will be with us for coming I 
Carrying off its Pauline, taking the cream 
off its little cup of bliss, or, who knows? 
dashing the cup altogether from its lips I 
Listen 1 how merry its little heart is now I 
Ah I my friend, that laugh died away when 
you turned and saw us / Well, we sha'n't 
owe you a grudge," cried the good-natured 
chatterer; **for I'm sure I should have 
felt just the same if I had stood in your 
stead. Well, Pauline ? How do you do, 
Mr. Fennel?" 

" You are having a nice walk," said Mrs. 
Jermyn, eyeing them both. She had at 
least the right to say "walk," until the 
walk had been disclaimed. 

" We are going to the garden," replied 
Pauline, innocently. " Will you and Char- 
lotte come ? Do ; you wanted to see the 
pines, and there are some large ones just 



commg on. 



Wanted to see the pines ? Yes ; but 
not to see Pauline showing the pines ! — 
not to be handed out of her carriage in 
her own sis te r-t n-la'u/ s gronndsy and taken 
to her garden, and- treated as a visitor^ 
where she had a right to be at home ! — 
not to be welcomed and patronised^ and 
pulled about hither and thither to suit the 
young lady's convenience ! No indeed ! 

But for Mr. Fennel's presence, Mrs, 
Jermyn could hardly have brought her- 
self to accept the invitation. 

As it was, she debated ; but Charlotte 
had leaped to the ground, disdaining as- 
sistance, and curiosity prompted the of- 
fended lady to put pride in her pocket, 



io8 



PAULINE. 



and follow. At least she would discover 
the object of the expedition. 

Pines, indeed ! A girl without a penny 
should not presume to talk about pines 1 

To her astonishment, the eirl without a 
penny walked off with Charlotte, and Mr. 
Fennel was left to be her escort. 

A blind, of course ; but she was agree- 
ably disappointed at finding that she could 
so soon satisfy herself on the points about 
which she was most inquisitive. No one 
could now interfere with her. 

" I had no idea that gardening was one 
of your accomplishments, Mr. Fennel ? " 
she began. 

Neither had he, but the circumstances 
were explained. Miss La Sarte had de- 
ferred to the wishes of her aunt, who had 
disliked her frequenting the closed-in 
paths ; she, or he, or somebody, had sug- 
gested the garden, and so — ana so — that 
was it. He thought it was pleasant 
enough anywhere, for his part. 

"No doubt," replied the lady, drily; 
** even without the pines." 

"Oh well, you know, I should like to 
see them awfully, if you would. There*s 
nothing better than a pine, and the one 
last night was the best I ever tasted. Ton 
my word it was." 

" Last night ? " murmured Mrs. Jermyn, 
absently. 

" 1 forgot vou were not here. We had 
an awfully nfce little party, only Miss La 
Sarte was ill. And so I rode over this 
morning to see how she was. And she was 
out, you know ! It was rather good, wasnU 
it ? Like the dog, you know ! Ha ! ha ! ha I 
Mother Hubbard's dog, wasn't it ? What 
is the verse ? " 

" When she came back, 
The dog was a-laughing," 

said Mrs. Jermyn, readily. " Yes, amus- 
ing. But it was exactly the sort of thing one 
might expect" — she checked herself. 
" The young ladies of the present day are 
inclined to be a little whimsical, we must 
acknowledge, Mr. Fennel. Miss La Sarte 
kept her room ? " 

He was delij;:hted to explain. Miss La 
Sarte had not kept her room, but she had 
retired to it deplorably early. Everybody 
bad agreed as to the cause of her ill- 
ness. 

" And you would not think there could 
be anything the matter with her this morn- 
ing, would you ? " cried he, eloquently. 
" She was just as well as she could be 
when I came. She was walking up and 
down here in the avenue." 



''It is hardly fair of us to rob you of so 
charming a companion." 

" Oh, well, you know, we'll catch them 
up in the garden. They can't get away 
from us in the garden. That's the best 
thing about a garden," continued he, con- 
fidentially; "you know where to find peo- 
ple, and that sort of thing. If you are 
told to look for them in the stables, or the 
kennels " 

"You would hardly expect to find Miss 
La Sarte in either place ? " 

" Oh, you know, Mrs. Jermyn, I was 
not talking of her, then. You are laugh- 
ing at me." 

He was prepared to be offended, and 
she hastily apologized. " Only a joke, Mr. 
Fennel. You, who are so fond of jokes, 
must not blame me for my little attempt ; 
but," anxious to please, "you must not 
speak of gardens so disrespectfully, for we 
have heard great accounts of your own. 
You do take some interest in it, I sup- 
pose ? " ^ 

" Oh, well, I do, sometimes. But what's 
the use if I did ? My gardener is such a 
swell that he won't let me touch anythino;, 
and if I want a flower for my button-hole 
he hides it I 'Pon my word he does ! I 
say, * Oh, come now, Harrison, this is foo 
bad ! This is past a joke I Where's that 
white concern gone ? ' But he won't tell 
me, you know. He makes believe it is 
over, or some stupid show of that kind. I 
say, * Oh, come now, I know your stingy 
ways. But just give me on^. Just one. 
Come now.' But he won't 1 He is too 
many for me. I have got to give in to 
Harrison, whatever he says ; because, you 
know, anything for a quiet life." 

" You take prizes at the flower-show, as 
a reward for your good-nature." 

" Did Harrison take a prize ? 'Pon my 
word, I didn't know. He would not tell 
me, you know ; he would never tell me. 
He keeps it dark, all about flower-shows 
and that sort of thing." 

So he twaddled on. 

Meantime Charlotte had inquired, 
" What brought him over at this hour ? 
I don't ask w/to brought him ; //taf is ap- 
parent. But what excuse had he for com- 
ing?" 

"We had a party last night, and I was 
stupid — at least, I don't know how it 
was, I had to get up and leave the din- 
ner-table. Wasn't it wonderful?" com- 
mented Pauline, brightly. " He was bound 
to come and ask after me." 

" You had a party I And why did you 
not invite us ? You cruel creature 1 You 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



109 



not 



know we like to come. Whv did you 
make Aunt Camilla ask us?*' 

" 1 am afraid 1 did not think of it, Char- 
lotte.'^ 

« Well, don't forget next time, and I'll 
forgive you. Now say, auick, who was 
there, and all about it Was it a nice 
one? Did everybody come? And what 
did you wear ? " 

" Everybody came. And I suppose it 
was a nice one." 

** And what did you wear ? " 

" What did I wear ? Oh ! my amber 
crape." 

'* Your amber crape ? I don't know it. 
You were very grand, then ? What is it 
like ? And how have I never seen it ? " 

** I don't know. 1 wore it at the Tracys, 
and Aunt Camilla asked me to put it on 
last night." 

^* Asked you I That is rather good. 
If you were any other girl in the world 
— but I don't believe you do care much 
what you look like. Amber crape ! I 
daresay it looked very beautiful, and 
that you looked very beautiful in it. 
There ! That is what I would not say 
to everybody ! Come now, Pauline, con- 
fess that you had one little gleam of satis- 
faction in seeing yourself in the mirror. 
Confess to one, and prove yourself a very 
woman." 

Now, could Pauline confess with truth ? 
The horror of the past night was still 
upon her — still hun^ like a black shadow, 
out of which she had, indeed, stepped into 
the sunshine, but whose chill touch could 
never be forgotten. 

With a tremulous effort at pleasantry, 
she rejoined, " Never mind what I say, 
dear. Tell yourself I did. And next time 
you may be sure I will. 

"Well, young people, we have caught 
you at last 1 You cannot shake us off any 
longer. Pauline, my love, what is this I 
hear? Mr. Fennel has told me a sad 
story. You naughty, imprudent creature, 
what have you been doing ? Some one 
will have to look better after you in future, 
if this is to be the way. I must really 
take you under my own wing." 

** It was the venison, you know," mur- 
mured a voice by her side. 

" It was the amber crape," cried Char- 
lotte. " It was the beautiful dress she 
wore, Mr. Fennel. You know you noticed 
what a beautiful dress she had on ? Well, 
it was pinched in a little, just a very little, 
too tight, and it took away her breath. 
Aren't you sorry, now, that you had ad- 
mired the dress so much ? " 

*' Well now, I really am, 'pon my word. 



I did think it looked stunning, you know. 
But was it really that? Are you sure, 
now, that it had nothing to do with the 
venison ? " 

" Or that it had anything to do with the 
dress ? " 

Mrs. Jermyn was looking at Pauline. 

" 1 am sure of nothing except that it is 
not worth thinking about. It is gone, and 
I am ashamed of it. Please say no 
more." 

She opened the inner door of the hot- 
house as she spoke, and every one had to 
enter ; to look, admire, and be suffocated. 

CHAPTER XXII. 
A WELCOME VISITOR. 

A PLEASURE was in store for Pauline. 

Her brother had been invited by his aunt 
to spend Christmas at the Grange, and 
having had the good luck to obtain a few 
extra holidays, had started off to take 
them all, as he loved to do, by surprise. 

He was in the hall, when the party re- 
turned from their stroll, surrounded by 
portmanteaus, gun-cases, and walking- 
sticks ; and so taken up by paying the fare 
for his fly, that they were by his side ere 
he had perceived their approach. 

Never was a new interest more oppor- 
tune. 

Pauline, now beginning to suffer from 
the reaction consequent on the late strain 
to her nerves, had been unable to play the 
part she had resolved upon. Bodily and 
mental powers were alike jaded ; and her 
loss of spirits had affected the others. 

Mrs. Jermj'n was irritable and suspi- 
cious, Mr. Fennel chagrined, and even 
Charlotte's good-temper had not been 
proof against the prevailing gloom. 

Tom's loud, fresh, hilarious " How d'ye 
do " was music in the ears of all. With 
him came in a gust of the outer atmos- 
phere, a reviving influence of ignorance 
and innocence. He was to talk and be 
talked to ; to ask, and be answered ; to 
usurp the looks, tongues, and attention of 
the circle. 

How had he come ? By the Great 
Western. When? That minute. For 
how long ? Till Monday. 

With the frankness of a schoolboy, and 
the ready adaptation of a man of the 
world, he was at home in a moment, pre- 
pared to sip the honey of the passing hour, 
to past and future alilce indifferent. 

He had scarcely, it appeared, as yet 
begun his new life. He had been visitmg 
at the country villas of the head partners ; 
all had been kind to him, and it was evi- 



XIO 



PAULINE. 



dent that he had been made much of. He 
was as ready as ever to take the lead, se- 
cure of the approval his gaietv, good looks, 
and good humor never tailecl to inspire. 

What had they all been about ? What 
was in hand for Christmas? He hoped 
there were to be a lot of balls ? He hoped 
they were a dancing set? Private theatri- 
cals were still better. What house had 
been chosen for private theatricals ? He 
had passed some very good houses on his 
way from the station. 

The humiliating truth had to be con- 
fessed with shame — nobody had thought 
of private theatricals, and the Hunt Ball 
was the only one of which there appeared 
to be the slightest prospect. 

With one accord they turned to this, in 
the disgrace to which their eyes were now 
opened, and three voices put it forth at 
once; Mr. Fennel for the sake of the 
county, Mrs. Wvndham for her own, and 
Pauline for her brother's. 

She could not have his joyous anticipa- 
tions damped at the outset ; and the inter- 
position was in so far satisfactory, that, 
although it was evident that this was not 
all he had expected, it was sufficient to 
prevent utter consternation. 

The Hunt Ball ? Yes, it was just about 
the time for one. Was it well done ? Was 
it good ? Did the people ffo ? 

He was referred to Mr. Fennel, and 
took the hint ; he was sure he should enjoy 
it immensely. 

" I thing we may say the people go, cer- 
tainly," observed Mrs. Jermvn, in her soft- 
est tones. " Sir John and Lady Finch 
invariably attend, and bring a party — a 
really r///7rw/w^ party, nice pleasant people, 
of the kind one does not often meet any- 
where else ; and the Willoughbys come, 
although the manor is such a long way off, 
that — that they are hardly, perhaps, quite 
the acquisitions they might be " (in fact, 
she did not know them). " I believe they 
are excellent people, but they are too dis- 
tant for one to keep up anything of ac- 
quaintanceship," continued Mrs. Jermyn, 
skimming the surface of truth, but not 
troubh'ng the deep waters. ** Lord Chor- 
lev goes, whenever he is at home, and 
Mrs. Curzon, who is rather a notable per- 
son in her way, is never absent. Her 
party has already begun to assemble — 
quite a houseful, I beheve — all the mar- 
ried daughters, and their husbands, and 
such a number of gentlemen ! " 

" With not ^gentleman among them !" 
supplemented Charlotte, sotto voce. " Do 
you know Mrs. Curzon, Pauline ? " 



" No." 

" No loss, I can tell you. Maramri be- 
lieves in her, because she puts herself 
forward, and dresses gorgeously, and 
surrounds herself by a great rabble of 
people ; but, for my part, I think she is the 
kind of widow that ought to have been 
burnt in a suttee I She would have pre- 
sided over the whole ceremonial with the 
utmost enjoyment, and made eyes at the 
Brahmin who handed her up the pile ! 
Your last sight of her would have been, 
enthroned aloft in the greatest comfort, 
waving her fan, and kissing the tips of her 
fingers to her dear relations among the 
crowd ! What a pity, what a very great 

Citythat the world and Mrs. Curzon nave 
oth been defrauded of such a treat ! " 

Mrs. Jermyn had now turned to Tom. 
" Of course I have only named a few^^ 
she said. " There will be plenty of 
others, as you will see, to say nothing of 
the present company. The Thomsons, 
of course, and Major Soames, and the 
Jacks " 

"Don't know one of them," he re- 
marked. " I don't know a soul about here, 
except — never mind, you will find me 
some partners, Pauline. It is the best fun 
in the world making your way about a 
room full of strangers, and being able to 
pick out whom you like, without being 
obliged to ask the bores." 

"If one can do so," replied Mrs. Jer- 
mym, not over well pleased at her list 
having failed to awaken either respect or 
inquiry. " If one could choose for one's 
sell, it would be naturally pleasant ; but 
such a plan is not always, excuse me, feas- 
ible. Sir John and Lady Finch, for in- 
stance, are extremely strict in the matter 
of introductions, and make quite a point of 
no one's being brought up to any of their 
party who is not — not " — she paused, 
uncertain how to finish so plainly rude a 
speech. 

With the grudge she owed Pauline, so 
good an opportunity of rebuking the pre- 
sumptuous brother had been too tempt- 
ing; but it was difficult, in the presence of 
so many, to administer the necessary chas- 
tisement. 

Was he then to carry matters with a 
high hand, too ? Had Tom no more idea 
than Pauline to what a low estate they had 
fallen? She was vexed with herself for 
the notice she had involuntarily bestowed 
upon Tom, and longed to retract it ; but 
both the previous condescension and its 
present withdrawal were lost upon the un- 
grateful recipient. 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



Ill 



Her unfinished sentence, her "not — 
not," he filled up after his own fashion. 

*• Not ' all there,' ? " he said, merrily, 
"is that it, ma'am? What a peculiar 
couple ! Are there any little Finches, or 
are they all hatched and fiown ? " 

" Mr. Finch is 



»i 



" Coming up to the front door." 

Mrs. Jermyn began the reply, her 
daughter finished it. 

" Is that Mr. Finch ? " said Tom. " He 
has got a nice little horse. Do you 
think he will offer me a mount while I 
am here ? " 

Unparalleled audacity! Sir John and 
Lady Finch, the people of the neighbor- 
hood, to be called "a peculiar couple," 
their names joked about, and their prop- 
erty coveted ! 

The angry color gathered on Mrs. Jer- 
myn's cheeli, and she glanced round seek- 
ing support. 

Would Camilla not sav a word ? Would 
Pauline not look abashed ? Was Char- 
lotte actually laughing f 

None of them had any sense of pro- 
priety. Mr. Fennel had even turned to 
young La Sarte, and begun a hunting con- 
versation, and Mrs. Wyndham was regard- 
ing them both with the complacency of a 
hostess who sees her guests assimilating 
properly. 

Nor did the entrance of Dolly Finch 
improve matters. 

It was Dolly's way to love and be loved, 
to look kindly on the world in general, 
and to hail with rapture anything of a 
kindred spirit. 

This alone would have been sufficient 
to have insured for Mrs. Wyndham's 
nephew the warmest reception; but, in 
Tom, he saw Pauline's brother. 

Words cannot paint the satisfaction of 
his heart. 

Due inquiries had hardly been made, 
he barely allowed himself time to express 
his pleasure at witnessing the invalid re- 
covered, ere he turned to Tom. So lucky 
an opportunity could not be made too 
much of, and, in headlong haste, to take 
every advantage of it, he bethought him 
of the very mount on which young La 
Sarte had been speculating. 

In less than five minutes it was placed 
at his disposal. 

As frankly was it accepted. 

" With just a * Thank you,' and no 
more!" said Mrs. Jermyn afterwards. 
" Without a scruple about making use of 
Sir John's beautiful horses. Absolutely 
forcing himself on their acquaintance I 



Making the appointment! Seeing no 
favor in it, no — no — no anything! 
The coolness of these young people is 
really beyond bearing." 

This, however, had to be for Charlotte's 
ears alone, and Charlotte merely replied 
by a shrug of her shoulders. It was not 
worth her while to open the eyes of the 
wilfully blind, even had it been a possi- 
bility. 

During the visit little could be said, and 
nothing could be done, to interfere with 
the arrangements which were harmoni- 
ously completed under the indignant 
lady s very nose. 

"You'll come up to breakfast?" said 
Dolly. 

" Thanks. What hour ? " 

" Ten, sharp. The meet is in the en- 
closure in front of the house." 

" I hope that frosty look in the sky will 
give way," said Tom. " I don't half like 
the look of it. How was the scent this 
morning ? " 

"I — I wasn't out with them," said 
Dolly. 

He was looking at Pauline as he spoke, 
and all but Tom knew how to interpret 
the words. 

Tom stared. Not out w^ith them ? 
Wilfully not out ? Was it possible, cred- 
ible ? He could hardly believe his ears. 

" Got a cold," muttered Dolly in expla- 
nation. " Nasty sort of day." Then, 
with a happy thought, " What will you do 
for me to-day. Miss La Sarte ? You 
cured me splendidly last week, and I have 
come back for more of the same stuff." 

Such spirit deserved to be rewarded, as 
it was. He had secured the right to talk 
to her, and having thus begun, continued 
boldly. 

" Miss La Sarte, you never come to a 
meet. We are going to have a big party 
to-morrow. Won't you come to break- 
fast with your brother, and my mother 
will drive you to the cover afterwards? 
She is sure to go." 

" An awfully good idea ! " cried Tom. 
" My sister would enjoy nothing more. 
We'll both come." 

" So very kind," murmured Mrs. Jer- 
myn, for him. 

She was the only auditor. Mrs. Wynd- 
ham was entertaining Mr. Fennel, and 
Charlotte was occupied with a study of 
the pair. 

" So exceedingly kind," continued she, as 
the party soon after went in to luncheon. 
" I hope, Pauline, that your brother will 
really appreciate such an offer. I hope 



112 



MORDECAi: A PROTEST AGAINST THE CRITICS. 



be will understand why it was made. It 
would not be amiss, I think, to give him a 
word of caution, a hint " 

"The very thing for the dear boy, is it 
not ? " exulted her sister-in-law in the same 
breath. **Now there is no need to fear 
he will be dull. Now we shall feel his 
visit is really provided for. What could 
have happened more h propos f Mr. Fen- 
nel being here, too I Quite a gathering of 
young men ! " 

She was in the best of humors ; her 
aside was conveyed in a happy whisper, 
Mrs. Jermyn's in a surly undertone ; but 
to neither did Pauline pay heed. 

She was planning how to get off the 
promised engagement. Her head ached, 
but dare she plead that? Her aunt had 
not been invited, but could she suggest 
that 1 Dolly, alone, had asked her. She 
caught at this. 

She caught at it, but to no purpose, her 
aunt was simply surprised. 

" I don't understand, my dear. Not go 
because Ladv Finch had sent you no invi- 
tation ? Lady Finch knew nothing of the 
matter. She has asked you there repeat- 
edly, repeatedly. It was not in the least 
necessary that I should be invited ; there 
was no slight to me, none, A young man 
asks his friend; quite informally — the 
thought of the moment; and it occurs to 
him to ask his friend's sister, also. To be 
sure you can go. It would be quite proper 
and suitable, gr7/t/e, A nice, merry meet- 
ing, and everybody present; I shall be 
pleased, delighted i\\zi yon should be seen 
there, I shall indeea. You will wear 
your black and crimson dress. And, Pau- 
line, I think you had better have the 
landau." 

Mrs. Wyndham was still engrossed with 
her subject, when Dolly sauntered up. 

" We shall see you to-morrow ? " he 
said, trying hard to conceal his anxiety. 

" Thank you, ye-es." 

"You will not disappoint — mef*^ he 
continued in a low voice, and with a sud- 
den meaning and emphasis. Mrs. Wynd- 
ham had discreetly withdrawn, and the 
moment was his own. " I am sure you 
wouldn't, if you only knew. I ought to 
have said * us,* I suppose, but I was 
thinking too much of myself. Miss La 
Sarte " 

She knew not what she said, but she 
stopped him. 

She began to talk, smile, laugh insanely, 
and got him quieted somehow. 

This was absurd. This could not be 
allowed. A boy, a mere boy, with whom 
she had permitted herself to be intimate, 



with whom she had felt it safe to be famil- 
iar, was suddenly developing into a lover ! 
He ought not to make himself ridiculous, 
creatures of that age should be thinking of 
other things than love ; football, cricket, 
and such like, should "fill the measure of 
his thoughts." 

The girl was absolutely cruel in her 
contempt. 

Poor Dolly's pretty, fair curls, his blue 
eyes, with their wistful pertinacious gaze, 
raised no feeling of pity, or kindliness, in 
her bosom — rather, they excited in it a 
spring of bitterness and disgust. 

Over her memory there rushed the rec- 
ollection of a look, an eye, the turn of a 
dark head — was she to blame ? She 
seemed to see before her the man she 
could have loved, and the man whom she 
could not love she hated. 



From Macinillan*s Magazine. 
MORDECAI: A PROTEST AGAINST THE 

CRITICS. 

BY A JEW. 

Se^hardo, Wise books 

For half the truths they hold are honored tombs. 

*' Spanish Gypsy," p. 205. 

The critics have had their say: the re- 
cording angels of literature, more sorrow- 
ful than angry, have written down " Dan- 
iel Deronda " a failure. And there seems 
to be at least this much of truth in their 
judgment that one of the parts of which 
the book is composed has failed to interest 
or even to reach its audience. For the 
least observant reader must have noticed 
that " Daniel Deronda " is made up of 
two almost unconnected parts, either of 
which can be read without the other. 
Every "book" after the first is divided 
into two parts, whose only claim to be 
included under the same covers is the 
common action or inaction of the epony- 
mous hero. One set of characters and 
interests centres round the fate and for- 
tunes of Gwendolen Harleth, and of this 
part of the book we can surely say that 
it has excited as much interest and bitten as 
deeply into men's minds as any of the au- 
thor's previous studies of female character. 
Indeed, we would submit that George 
Eliot's last portrait of female egotism is m 
many ways her best : her hand has become 
more tender, and, because more tender, 
more true than when she drew such nar- 
row types as Hetty Sorrel and Rosamond 
Vincy. so unnaturally consistent in their 
selfishness. The story of Gwendolen 



MORDECAi: A PROTEST AGAINST THE CRITICS. 



"3 



Harleth's purification from egoism is, 
then, one mignt say, even a greater suc- 
cess than the former pictures of girlish 
struggles, and displays the a^thor^s dis- 
tinguishing excellences in undiminished 
brilliancy. But there is another part of 
the book with which the English-speaking 
public and its literary " tasters " have 
failed to sympathize, and which they have 
mostly been tempted to omit onreperusal. 
The tragedy of Mordecai Cohen's mission- 
ary labors, on which the author has spent 
immense labor of invention and research, 
must be pronounced to have completely 
failed in reaching and lexciting the inter- 
est and sympathy of the ordinary reader. 
Mr. Bagehot has told us that the greatest 
pain man can feel is the pain of a new 
idea, and the readers of " Daniel Deron- 
da " have refused painfully to assimilate 
the new idea of the Mordecai part of the 
' book. This idea we take to be that Juda- 
ism stands on the same level as Christian- 
ity, perhaps even on a higher level, in 
point of rationality and capacity to satisfy 
the wants of the religious consciousness, 
** the hitherto neglected reality," to use the 
author's own words (ii. 292), ** that Juda- 
ism is something still throbijing in human 
lives, still making for them the only con- 
ceivable vesture of the world." The diffi- 
culty of accepting this new idea comes out 
most prominently in the jar most readers 
must have felt in the omission of any ex- 
planation of the easy transition of Deron- 
da from the Christianity in which he was 
bred to the Judaism in which he had been 
born. 

The present notice proposes to discuss 
the failure of this unsuccessful part, from 
the standpoint of one for whom this initial 
difficulty does not exist, and who has from 
his childhood seen the world habited in 
those Hebrew old clothes of which Mr. 
Carlyle and others have spoken so slight- 
ingly. And the first thing that it is natural 
for a Jew to say about " Daniel Deronda " 
is some expression of gratitude for the 
wonderful completeness and accuracy with 
which George Eliot has portrayed the Jew- 
ish nature. Hitherto the Jew in English 
fiction has fared unhappily : being always 
represented as a monstrosity, most fre- 
quently on the side of malevolence and 
greed, as in Marlowe's Barabbas and Dick- 
ens's Fagin, or sometimes, as in Dickens's 
Riah, still more exasperatingly on the side 
of impossible benevolence. What we 
want is truth, not exaggeration, and truth 
George Eliot has given us with the . large 

i'ustice of the great artist. The gallery of 
ewish portraits contained in '* Daniel 

UVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 944 



Deronda " gives in a marvellously full and 
accurate way all the many sides of our 
complex national character. The artistic 
element, with the proper omission of paint- 
ing and sculpture, in which Jews, though 
eminent, have not been pre-eminent, is 
well represented by Klesmer, Mirah, and 
the Alcharisi. Ezra Cohen is a type of 
the commonplace Jew, the familiar figure 
of prosperous mercantile dealing, the best- 
known trait of Jews to Englishmen ; while 
little Jacob exhibits in a very humorous 
form the well-known precocity of Jewish 
children. The affectionate relations of 
Ezra Cohen and his mother and the ten- 
der respect of Mordecai and Mirah for 
the memory of theirs, point to the excep- 
tional influence of the mother and the 
home in the inner life of the Jews. Then 
in Kalonyneos, whom we feel tempted to- 
call the Wandering Jew, we get the nomad- 
ic spirit which has worked in Israel fromi 
times long previous to the dispersion,, 
while all must join in the scorn the author- 
evidently feels for Pash, the Jew wKo is. 
no Jew. Yet he is the representative of 
what might be called the Heine side of* 
Jewry — the wit and cynicism that reached 
their greatest intensity in the poet of 
Young Germany. The more temperate 
Gideon represents, it is to be feared, a. 
large proportion of English Jews, one not 
ashamed of his race, yet not proud of it,, 
and willing to see the racial and religious 
distinctions we have fought for so valiant- 
ly die out and perish utterly among men. 
Perhaps the most successful of the minor 
portraits is that of the black sheep Lapi- 
doth, the Jew with no redeeming love 
for family, race, or country to preserve 
him from that sordid egoism (the new- 
name for wickedness) into which he has 
sunk. His utter unconsciousness of good 
and evil is powerfully depicted in the mas*- 
terlv analysis of his state of mind before 
purloining Deronda's ring. To some ex^ 
tent the weird figure of the Alcharisi 
serves as a sort of companion picture of 
female renunciation of racial claims, but 
the struggle between her rebellious will 
and what old-fashioned folk call the will 
of God (Professor Clifford would perhaps 
name it the tribal will) raises her to a tragic 
height which makes Deronda's mother 

Cernaps the most imposing figure in the 
00k. Deronda himself, by the circum- 
stance of his education, is prevented from 
typifying any of the social distinctions of 
a Jew, yet it is not unlikely that his grav- 
ity of manner and many-sided sympathy 
were meant b^ the author to be taken as 
hereditary traits. 



114 



MORDECAi: A PROTEST AGAINST THE CRITICS. 



These, with Ram the bookseller, the 
English Jew of the pre-emancipation era, 
and some minor characters, give to the 
reader a most complete picture of Jews 
and Jewesses in their habits as they live, 
of Jews and Jewesses as members of a 
peculiar people in relation to the Gentile 
world. To point the moral of human 
fallibility, besides some minor slips in cer- 
emonial details on which it were ungrateful 
to dwell,* we cannot but think (a critic is 
nothing if not critical) that the author has 
failed to give in Mi rah an adequate type of 
Jewish girlhood. Mirah is undoubtedly 
tame ; and tameness, for those who know 
them, is the last infirmity of Jewish girls. 
Still even here the sad experience of 
Mirah's youth may be held to have some- 
what piilliated any want of brightness, and 
the extra vivacity of Mrs. Cohen junior 
perhaps supplies the deficiency. 

So much for the outer life of Judaism. 
The English reader will find here no idea 
so startlingly novel as to raise opposition 
to its admission, or to disturb his compla- 
cent feeling of superiority over Jews in 
all but a certain practical sagacity (he calls 
it sharpness or cunning), which must be 
postulated to explain tne "differentia of 
success" characterizing the Jewish spe- 
cies of commercial dealings. One new 
fact he may indeed profitably learn : from 
the large group of Jewish characters in 
" Daniel Deronda " he may perhaps 
gather that there are Jews and Jews, that 
they are not all Lapidoths, nor even all 
Ezra Cohens, as he has been accustomed 
to think. 

But the new idea of which we have 
spoken is embodied in the person of Mor- 
decai Cohen, the Jev/fiar excellence of the 
book* th6 embodiment of the inner life of 
Judaism. The very fact of this recogni- 
tion of an inner life, not to speak of the 
grand personality in which she has typified 
It, entitles George Eliot to the heart-deep 
gratitude of all Jews ; the more so inas- 
much as she has hazarded and at least 
temporarily lost success for her most elab- 
orated production by endeavoring to battle 
with the commonplace and conventional 
ideas about Judaism. The present article 
aims at striking another blow to convince 



* E.g.y taliths or frioged mantles are not worn on 
Friday nights (ii. 392-300), the Kaddish, or prayer in 
honor of the dead, is only said for eleven months, uot 
eleven years (iv. 92), and then only by a son. Mirah 
seems to be under the same delusion (li. 306). Before 
breaking the bread (ii. 356). Cohen should have "made 
Kiddush,*' />., pronounced a blessing over some sacra- 
mental wine. It is doubtful whether Cohen would 
'have paid money and written a pawn-ticket on Sabbath 
«ve, but this may be intentionaL 



the English world of the existence in the 
present day and for all past time of a spir- 
itual life in Judaism. And we can con- 
ceive of no better point of defence for the 
position than the historic probability of 
the character of Mordecai, which critics 
have found so mystic, vague, and impossi- 
ble. 

Those who know anything of the great 
leaders of spiritual Judaism will recognize 
in Mordecai all the traits that have charac- 
terized them. Saul of Tarsus, Ibn Gebi- 
rol (Avicebron), Jehuda Halevi, Ibn Ezra, 
Maimonides, Spinoza, Mendelssohn, not 
to mention other still more unfamiliar 
names, were all men like Mordecai : rich in 
inward wealth, yet content to earn a scanty 
livelihood by some handicraft ; ardently 
spiritual, yet keenly alive to the claims of 
home affection ; widely erudite, yet pro- 
foundly acquainted with human nature ; 
mystics, yet with much method in their 
mysticism. The author seems even to 
have a bolder application of the historic 
continuity of the Hebraic spirit in view : 
she evidently wishes Mordecai to be re- 
garded as a "survival" of the prophetic 
spirit, a kind of Isaiah redivivus. Hence 
a somewhat unreal effect is produced by 
his use of a diction similar to what might 
be expected from a "greater prophet" 
stepping out of the pages of the Author- 
ized Version. Still it is to be remembered 
that we almost always see Mordecai in 
states of intense excitement, when his 
thought would naturally clothe itself in the 
forms in which all his literary efforts had 
been written. He speaks in a sufficiently 
prosaic and unbiblical style when the sub- 
ject is prosaic, as to Daniel Deronda at 
•their first meeting (ii. 336) : " What are you 
disposed to give for it ? " "I believe Mr. 
Ram will be satisfied with half-a-crown, 
sir," remarks sufficiently on the level of 
nineteenth-century conversation to give 
Mordecai some community with ordinary 
folk. 

There is yet another quality which Mor- 
decai shares with the sages and prophets 
of the past : he is a layman. The natural 
thing for a writer describing "a spiritual 
destmy embraced eagerly in youth," a rep- 
resentative of the religious life of a na- 
tion, would be to describe some young 
priest ardently striving for the spiritual 
enlightenment of his flock, some Mr. 
Tr)'an, some Savonarola; and it would 
have been right for all other religions. Bat 
in Judaism tne inner development of the 
spirit has been carried on entirely by 
laymen : the Jewish summa theotogice^ 
" The Guide to the Perplexed " (" Mori 



MORDECAi: A PROTEST AGAINST THE CRITICS. 



"S 



Nebouchim ") of Maimonides, was written 
by a physician. We shall be using more 
familiar illustrations when we remind the 
reader that Moses and Ezra, and, above 
all, the prophets were men from the lay 
community, not members of an organized 
priesthood. This may account for that 
spirit of compromise (writers of the new 
English call it '* adaptation to environ- 
ment") which is as marked a character- 
istic of the religious history of Jews as of 
the political history of Englishmen. Other 
religions have had churches, bureaucra- 
cies : Judaism has had a synagogue, a rep- 
resentative assembly. 

Mordecai shares yet another gift of his 
predecessors : he is a poet. The fragment 
in chapter xxxviii. commencing, — 

Away from me the garment of forgetf uloess, 
Withering the heart, 

might well be a translation from a Piut of 
Ibn Gebirol or a Selicha of Jehuda Ha- 
le vi, and makes him a fit dramatis per- 
sona of that "national tragedy in which 
the actors have been also the heroes and 
the poets." 

We do not then speak without knowl- 
edge of the history of Jews, post-biblical 
as well as biblical, when we say that Mor- 
decai Cohen is a lineal successor of those 
great leaders of spiritual Judaism who 
have fought in the van in that moral war- 
fare which Judaism has waged and won 
against the whole world; a fitting com- 
panion of that valiant band which has 
guarded through the ages the ark of the 
Lord intrusted to Israel's keeping four 
thousand years ago; a noble representa- 
tive of that spirit of resistance that has 
repulsed the most powerful disintegrating 
forces ever brought against a nation or a 
creed. A " nation of shopkeepers " has 
produced a Milton, a Shelley, a Newman ; 
a "nation of pawnbrokers," if you will, has 
given birth to a Jehuda Halevi, a Spinoza, 
a Mordecai. 

To believers in the principle of hered- 
ity this would be enough to give to Mor- 
decai that possibility which is sufficient for 
artistic existence. English critics, how- 
ever, seem not to believe in hereditary 
influences : they have unanimously pro- 
nounced him an impossibility. They re- 
quire, it would appear, some more tangible 
proof of the existence among modern 
Jews of a character like Mordecai's than 
the d priori probability afforded by the 
consideration of the historic continuity of 
national character. Even this want could 
be supplied. The present writer was for- 



tunate enough to discover* traces of a 
Jew who, allowing for the idealization 
which is the privilege of the artist, might 
well stand for the prototype of Morde- 
cai. In the Fortnightly Review for April 
I, 1866, Mr. George Henry Lewes pre- 
faces an article on Spinoza with an ac- 
count of a philosopher's club where he 
first made acquaintance with the doctrines 
of the Hebrew thinker, and which resem- 
bles in every particular the club at the 
Hand and Banner in the sixth book of 
" Daniel Deronda." The locality. Red 
Lion Square, near Holborn, is the same ; 
the free and easy method of discussion is 
the same ; the vocations of the frequent- 
ers are the same, — a freethinking second- 
hand bookseller (Miller), a journeyman 
watchmaker (Pash), a bootmaker (Croop), 
one who " penned a stanza when he should 
engross " (Lilly), and so on. But above 
all, the leading spirit of Mr. Lewes' club 
was a German Jew named Cohn or Kohn, 
whom he describes in words which might 
be applied almost without alteration to 
Mordecai. Mr. Lewes says of Cohn : — 

" We all admired him as a man of as- 
tonishing subtlety and logical force, no 
less than of sweet personal worth. He 
remains in my memory as a type of phil- 
osophic dignity. A calm, meditative, 
amiable man, by trade a journeyman 
watchmaker, very poor, with weak eyes and 
chest, grave ana gentle in demeanor, in- 
corruptible even by the seductions of van- 
ity ; 1 habitually think of him in connec- 
tion with Spinoza almost as much on 
account of his personal worth as because 
to him I owe my first acquaintance with 
the Hebrew thinker. My admiration of 
him was of that enthusiastic temper which 
in youth we feel for our intellectual lead- 
ers. I loved his weak eyes and low 
voice ; I venerated his intellect. He was 
the only man I did not contradict in the 
impatience of argument. An immense 
pity and a fervid indignation filled me as I 
came away from his attics in one of the 
Holborn courts where I had seen him in 
the pinching poverty of his home, with his 
German wife and two little black-eyed 
children; indignantly I railed against 
society which could allow so great an intel- 
lect to withdraw itself from nobler work 
and waste the precious hours in mending 
watches. But he was wise in his resigna- 
tion, thought I in my young indignation. 
Life was bard to him, as to all of us ; but 
he was content to earn a miserable pit- 

* The discovery was cominunicated to the A cademjp 
of July 29, 1876, by my friend, Mr. McAlisier, to whom 
I had shown it 



ii6 



MORDECAi: A PROTEST AGAINST THE CRITICS. 



tance by handicraft, and kept his soul se- 
rene. 1 learnt to understand him better 
when I learnt the story of Spinoza's life. 

" Cohn, as may be supposed, early es- 
tablished his supremacy in our club. A 
magisterial intellect always makes itself 
felt. Even those who differed from him 
most widely paid voluntary homage to his 
power." 

Aui Mordecai aut diabolus. Just as 
Walter Scott merely idealized Rebecca 
Gratz, the beloved of Washington Irving, 
into his Rebecca of York, so George Eliot, 
by the force of her eenius, has transformed 
Kohn into a prophet of the new exile. 
Even the omission of the wife and two 
children (in whose stead we get Mrs. 
Cohen junior, with Jacob and Adelaide 
Rebecca) only serves to heighten the isola- 
tion which makes the pathos of Mordecai's 
lot 

But surely the critics had no occasion 
to doubt the possibility of a Jew like Mor- 
decai at a time when we are still mourning 
the loss of one who laid down his life for 
the regeneration of our views of Israel's 
past as Mordecai sacrificed his for the ele- 
vation of our hopes of Israel's future. " I 
have certain words in my possession," 
wrote Emanuel Deutsch,* "which have 
been given me that they might be said to 
others, few or many. ... I know also 
that I shall not find peace or rest until I 
have said my whole say. And yet I cannot 
do it. And I yearn for things which 1 see 
and which might have been mine and 
would have been blessing and sunshine 
and the cooling dew to the small germs 
within me — and yet ! and yet ! " 

Would that Mr. Deutsch had lived to 
convince the world in his own burning 
words that Mordecai is no inert scarecrow 
of abstractions, but a warm, living real- 
ity ! 

We have laid so much stress upon the 
artistic truth of Mordecai's character be- 
cause, if this be granted, it is inexplicable 
that the central incident of the Jewish part 
of " Daniel Deronda," the meeting on the 
bridge between him and Deronda, should 
have failed to strike readers as perhaps 
the most remarkable incident in English 
fiction. If Mordecai has artistic reality 
we contend that the meeting on the bridge 
in chapter xl. reaches a tragic intensity 
which almost transcends the power of the 
novel, and would perhaps require the 
manifold emotive inlets of the Wagnerian 
drama to do it justice : eye, ear, brain, 



* The Literary Remains of the late Emanuel 
Deutsch (Murray, 1874), p. xii. 



and heart should all be responsive. We 
boldly deny greater tragic intensity to any 
incident in Shakespeare. Nor are there 
wanting signs that the author herself, no 
contemptible critic of her own productions, 
sets an equal value on the incident. In 
the motto prefixed to chapter xxxviii., de- 
scribing Mordecai's yearnings, she tells 
us in Brownesque English, — 

"There be who hold that the deeper 
tragedy were a Prometheus bound, not 
aftery but before, he had well got the celes- 
tial fire into the vupOrj^^ whereby it might 
be conveyed to mortals. Thrust by the 
Kratos and Bia of instituted methods into 
a solitude of despised ideas, fastened in 
throbbing helplessness by the fatal pres- 
sure of poverty and disease — a solitude 
where many pass by, but none regard." 

In other words, George Eliot considers 
the circumstances of Mordecai's fate to 
surpass in tragic pathos the most colossal 
monument of Greek dramatic art. Notice, 
too, the care with which she leads up to 
the incident. In chapter xxxvii. we have 
Deronda coming to the Meyricks at Chel- 
sea to announce to Mirah the forthcoming 
visit of Klesmer, and the chapter finishes 
as he is leaving Chelsea. The next chap- 
ter (xxxviii.) is filled with a description of 
Mordecai's yearning for a spiritual suc- 
cessor, and gives us en passant a fine pic- 
ture of the scene of the meeting (iii. 137). 
We o;et here in short all we need to under- 
stand and sympathize with the final episode 
of the " book ; " but lest we should come 
upon the fulfilment of the prophecy with 
too vivid a memory of the author's sub- 
limation of the idea of prophecy, we have 
interposed, like a comic scene in an Ehza- 
bethan tragedy, the magnificent account of 
Klesmer's visit to the Meyricks in chap. 
xxxix., which clearly occurred after the 
events described in chapter xl., which 
takes up the stream of narrative from 
chapter xxxvii. 

It seems to us clear that all this seem- 
ingly inartistic transposition of events is 
intended to make the incident of chapter 
xl. stand out more sharply into relief. 
We have the miracle explained away, it is 
true — the modern analytic spirit requires 
it — but the author wishes us to forget the 
explanation, or at least to relegate the in- 
tellectual element of chapter xxxviii. to 
the unconscious background, where it may 
be ready to assist, though not present to 
obstruct, emotion. All this care appears 
to show the importance attached by the 
author to the last chapter of book v. 

And in itself, apart from what the author 
may think of it, what a soul-moving inci- 



MORDECAi: A PROTEST AGAINST THE CRITICS. 



"7 



dent is there contained ! A representative 
of an ancient, world-important people, 
whose royalty of wrongs makes the aris- 
tocracies of Europe appear petty, finds 
himself clutched by the griping hands of 
want and death before he can move the 
world to that vision of the phcenix-rise of 
Israel which the prophetic instincts of his 
race have brought up clear before him. 
Careless of his own comfort, careless of 
coming death, he desires only to live anew 
— as the quasi-Positivist doctrine of the 
Cabala bids him live — in "minds made 
nobler by his presence." His prophetic 
vision pictures to him the very lineaments 
of his spiritual alter e^o^ whom he pa- 
thetically thinks of as differing from him- 
self in all externals, and, as death draws 
nigh, the ver^ scene of their meeting. 
And in this nmeteenth century, in prosaic 
London, this inward vision of the poor 
consumptive Jew is fultilled to the letter. 

Would it be too bold a suggestion if 
we suspected the author of having typified 
in the meeting of Deronda and Mordecai 
that 

one far-off divine event. 
To which the whole creation moves, 

the meeting of Israel and its Redeemer ? 
In personal characteristics, in majestic 
gravity (we cannot imagine Deronda laugh- 
ing), in width of sympathy and depth of 
tenderness, even in outward appearance, 
Daniel resembles the great Galilean Phar- 
isee whom all Christendom has accepted 
as in very truth the Messiah that will re- 
store Judaea to the holy people. To say 
the least, the author suggests the audacity 
in her comparison of the two to the fig- 
ures of Jesus and the Pharisee in Titian's 
** Tribute Money." 

We do not remember a single criticism * 
which has referred to this magnificent 
scene, where to our mind George Eliot's 
power of representing soul sptaking to 
soul has reached its greatest height. We 
do not remember a single critic who 
seemed to think that Mordecai's fate was 
in any way more pitiful than that of any 
other consumptive workman with mystic 
and impossible ideas. What reasons can 
be given for this defect of sympathy? In 
addition to the before-mentioned assump- 
tion that Mordecai does not possess artis- 
tic reality, there has been the emotional 
obstruction to sympathy with a Jew, and 

* Professor Dowden*s article in the Contemporary 
R^vie'M for February, which appeared after the above 
UAH written, forms an exception with re&i>ect to this as 
to ail the other dehciencies of the critics against which 
we here protest. 



the intellectual element of want of knowl- 
edge about modern Judaism. If Morde- 
cai had been an English workman, laying 
down his life for the foundation of some 
English International with Deronda for 
its Messiah Lassalle, he would have re- 
ceived more attention from the critics. 
But a Jew with views involving issues 
changing the future history of humanity — 
"impossible, vague, mystic." Let us not 
be misunderstocS : the past generation of 
Englishmen has been so generous to Jews 
that we should be ungrateful if we accused 
cultured Englishmen of the present day 
of being consciously repelled by the idea 
of a poor Jew being worthy of admiration. 
But fifteen centuries of hatred are not to 
be wiped out by any legislative enactment. 
No one can say that the fact of a man*s 
being a Jew makes no more difference in 
other men's minds than if he were (say) a 
Wesleyan. There yet remains a deep 
unconscious undercurrent of prejudice 
aojainst the Jew which conscientious En- 
glishmen have often to fight against as 
part of that lower nature, a survival of the 
less perfect development of our ancestors, 
which impedes the ascent of man. 

Along with this unconscious Judaeo- 
phobia there has gone the intellectual ele- 
ment of a tacit assumption that modern 
Judaism is a lifeless code of ritual instead 
of a living body of religious truth. Of 
course the pathos and tragedy of Morde- 
cai's fate depend in large measure on the 
value of the ideas for wnich he laid down 
his life. H he were a crazy believer that 
the English nation is descended from the 
lost Ten Tribes, his fate would only de- 
serve a smile of contemptuous pity. 
Hence the artistic necessity of the philo- 
sophic discussion in chapter xlii., where 
his ideas are explained and defended. 
Here again we have to complain of the 
want of sympathy shown by the critics, 
but perhaps still more of their want of 
knowledge. Our author devotes the forty- 
first chapter to a piece of special plead- 
ing (reallv addressed to the reader, though 
supposecf to be a philosophic musing of 
Deronda*s), the outcome of which is that 
if we want to tell whether an enthusiast is' 
justified in his faith, our only test is knowl- 
edge of the subject-matter. And the 
moral naturally is : study the history of 
the Jews. Hegel says somewhere, " The 
heritage a great man leaves the world is 
to force it to explain him," and we may 
say the same of a great work of art. But 
the critics of " Daniel Deronda '* have 
refused to pay the heavy probate duty of 
wading through the ten volumes or so of 



ii8 



MORDECAi: A PROTEST AGAINST THE CRITICS. 



Gratz's " Geschichte der Juden " to see 
whether Mordecai's ideas have anything 
in them or no: the easier plan was to 
denounce them as " vague and mystical." 
If it be contended that the sulirject is too 
unfamiliar for ordinary readers, and there- 
fore unsuited for a novel, we may answer 
that similar reasoning would exalt an 
Offenbach over a Beethoven. George 
Eliot has endeavored to raise the novel to 
heights wl>ere it may treat of subjects 
hitherto reserved for the drama or the 
epic, but instead of encouragment from 
English critics she meets with their neg- 
lect. 

Apart, however, from the intrinsic value 
of Mordecai's ideas, the discussion would 
deserve our admiration as a literary tour 
de force. It was the high praise of the 
Greek philosopher that if the gods spoke 
Greek they would talk as Plato wrote: 
may we not say that if Isaiah had spoken 
English he would have prophesied as 
George Eliot makes Mordecai speak .^ 
We trace in this the influence which the 
Authorized Version, — with all its inaccu- 
racies the most living reproduction of the 
Hebrew Scriptures — has had on our prin- 
cipal writers, notably in the case of so un- 
biblical a writer as Mr. Swinburne. 

And what of the ideas which Mordecai 
clothes with words as of one whose lips 
have been touched with coals of burning 
fire f What vagueness or mystery is 
there in the grand and simple lines of 
Jewish policy laid down by Mordecai ? 
Two ideas dominate Mordecai's argu- 
ments throughout the discussion. The 
resumption of the soil of Palestine by the 
Jews (which has often been proposed by 
Gentile writers as a solution of the much 
vexed Eastern question), and as a conse- 
quence the third and final promulgation 
of the Jewish religion to the world, are 
sufficiently definite ideas, however large 
and granci they may be. Even if one dis- 
agree with Mordecai's views one may at 
any rate pay him the respect due to an 
energetic leader of opposition, and recog- 
nize in him the leader of those who refuse 
to believe that Israel's part in history is 
played out, and that her future policy 
should be to amalgamate with the nations 
as soon as possible, letting her glorious 
past sink into an antiquarian study instead 
of living as a perennial spring of political 
action. Mordecai is not of those who 
hold that the millennium will come when 
men shall have arrived at that nicely bal- 
anced mediocrity, that the "pale abstract " 
man shall know his brother from other 
cosmopolitan beings only by some official 



badge necessary for distinction. He rather 
holds that in the world-organism of the 
nations each nationality will have its spe- 
cial function, Israel, as the Jewish poet- 
philosopher said, being the nation's 
heart.* The now-prevailing doctrine of 
heredity and the political enthusiasm for 
Panslavisro, Panteutonism, Pan-whatnot- 
ism, will have nought to urge against these 
Panjudaic views. And to our minds Mor- 
decai's is the profounder philosophy of 
history when he further thinks that the 
great quarry of religious truth, whence two 
world-religions have been hewn and 
shaped, but only into torsos, has yet where- 
withal to completely fashion the religion 
of the future. The one theologic dogma 
of Judaism, the unity of the Godhead (in- 
volving, as Mordecai remarks, the unity of 
mankind), can meet with no harsh recep)- 
tion from the philosophies of the day, im- 
bued as they all are with the monism of 
the "God-intoxicated Jew." The ration- 
alism of Spinoza's ^^Tractatus Theolo^co- 
Politicus^^ which has undermined mediae- 
val Christianity, now tottering from the 
attack, merely represents the outcome of 
a long line of Jewish thought on prophecy, 
miracles, and the like, and is, in large 
measure, derived from our summa theolo- 
gice, the " Mord Nebouchim " of Maimoni- 
des. Again, reverence for law, as marked a 
trait of the Jewish spirit as of Roman pride 
(the Talmud is but a corpus juris), is an- 
other characteristic which Judaism shares 
with the Zukunfts Religion. The divorce 
between man and the world, which is the 
disintegrating, factor in Christianity, no- 
where finds a place in Judaism. Further, 
the teleologic tendency of the evolution 
doctrine must find a reason for the mirac- 
ulous tenacity with which Judaism has 
clung to life. If, as biologists tell us, life 
consists in the adaptation of internal forces 
to the relations oi the environment, Juda- 
ism, of all religions, has most truly lived, 
and George Eliot has with due knowledge 
connected the utterances of Mordecai on 
Judaism with the problem of the hour, 
" What is progress ? " In this connection 
it were interesting to contrast the history 
of the two religions of civilization in the 
ages previous to the Reformation. While 
father after father was crystallizing the 
free thought of Jesus into stony dogma ; 
while doctor after doctor was riveting 
still closer the fetters of reason ; rabbi 
after rabbi was adapting tradition to the 

• Cusari, il. 36. Mordecai attributes the saying to 
Jehuda Halevi ; Sephardo in " The Spanish ( lypsy," 
p. 210, 10 the "Hook of Light." the Cabalistic book 
Sobar. It occurs in both. Vt<U Casse/s note in loco., 



MORDECAi: A PROTEST AGAINST THE CRITICS. 



119 



reason of the time, each, when his task 
was done, dying with the shemah ♦ on his 
lip^. Our author has put into the mouth 
of a Jew one of her noblest passages, de- 
scribing this progress in Judaism. Se- 
phardo, in "The Spanish Gypsy" (p. 215), 
speaks thus of the principles of order and 
progress in the Jewish religion : — 

I abide 
By that wise spirit of listening reverence 
Which marks the boldest doctors of our race. 
For truth to us is like a living child, 
Born of two parents : if the parents part 
And will divide the child, how shall it live? 
Or I will rather say, Two ancels guide 
The paths of man, both aged and yet young, 
As angels are, ripening through endless years. 
On one he leans : some call her Memory, 
Some Tradition ; and her voice is sweet 
With deep mysterious accords : the other. 
Floating above, holds down a lamp which 

streams 
A light divine and searching on the earth, 
Compelling eyes and footsteps : memory yields 
Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew. 
Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp 
Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked, 
But for tradition : we walk evermore, 
To higher paths by brightening Reason's 

lamp. 

The pages of that history of rationalism 
that shall treat of the progress of Jewish 
theosophy, culminating in the epoch-mak- 
ing thought of Spinoza, will fully bear out 
the historic truth of the above description. 
And surely that represents the spirit with 
which we may expect the religion of the 
future to be informed. 

But the new birth of Judaism and its 
revelation to the world are, ifi Mordecai's 
opinion, indissolubly connected with the 
new birth of the Jewish race as a nation. 
" The effect of our separaleness," he says, 
** will not be completed and have its high- 
est transformation unless our race takes 
on again the character of a nationality." 
And here again history confirms his views. 
For the life of Judaism has been connected 
with the history of Jews in a way such as 
has been the fate of no other religion. 
The very name of the relipon displays 
this intimate connection; of all religions 
Judaism alone has been named after the 
race of its believers. And it is to this 
that we may perhaps attribute the pecul- 
iar interest that George Eliot has felt for 
Jews, which we can trace at least as far 
back as 1864, when the first draft of " The 
Spanish Gypsy" was written. The two 
chief interests of the translator of Strauss 
and the friend of Mr. Herbert Spencer 

• The assertion of the Divine Unity, Deut vL 4. 



have been the religious consciousness, 
which she was the first to use for the ar- 
tistic purposes of the novel, and the influ- 
ence of hereditary forces, which she first 
raised into an ethical creed. And Jews 
are interesting in both connections, exhib- 
iting in the greatest known degree what 
is to her the highest virtue, fidelity to 
the claims of race. At the same time 
this relation of believers and creed has 
been the source of much misconception. 
No distinction is made in the popular 
mind between the theolo^ic and ethical 
doctrines of Judaism and the national 
customs of Jews. It is true that in the 
biblical times and afterwards the social 
and religious sanctions were not differen- 
tiated, but their raison d'^Hre nowadays, 
apart from the sanitary sanction of many 
of the customs, is merely the same as that 
which preserves many family customs 
among the aristocracies of Europe. It is 
our hational boast to have been the first 
to proclaim the true God, and the ** Swiss 
Guards of Deism," as Heine wittily calls 
us, have clothed themselves with such 
customs as with a uniform. These rites 
and ceremonies are not essential to the 
Judaism we have the mission to preach to 
the world : for Jews are a missionary 
though not a proselyting people ; however 
our voices may have hitherto been stifled, 
we have lived our mission if we have not 
been permitted to preach it. Those who 
become Jews in religion need not adopt 
the Mosaic riles unles they wish to be 
naturalized as Jews in race. Still the re- 
ligious trust that has kept the national 
life throbbing through the centuries has 
been the conviction that the Messiah who 
shall spread Judaism to the four corners 
of the world will be a Jew by race as well 
as in creed. And Mordecai's views of 
the resumption of the soil of the Holy 
Land by the holy people are the only log- 
ical position of a Jew who desires that the 
long travail of the ages shall not end in 
the total disappearance of the race. For 
from the times of the Judges periods of 
prosperity, such as the one upon which 
the present generation has entered, have 
been the most perilous for our national 
life : it is the struggle for national exist- 
ence that has resulted, we are vain enough 
to think, in the survival of the fittest mis- 
sionaries of the true religion. The sages 
say, " Israel is like the olive, the more it 
is pressed, the more copious the oil ; " 
and it is to be feared that the removal of 
the pressure will result in the cessation of 
the noble needs that are typified by the 
oiL Unless some such project as Mor« 



I20 



MORDECAi: A PROTEST AGAINST THE CRITICS. 



decai has in view be carried out in the 
next three generations, it is much to be 
feared that both the national life of Jews 
and the religious life of Judaism will per- 
ish utterly from the face of the earth. ** A 
consummation devoutly to be wished," the 
scoffers may say ; but not surely those in 
whose veins runs the blood of Israelites, 
and who have the proud heritage of God's 
truth to hand down to their children. 

Enough has perhaps been said to show 
that Mordecai's views about the future of 
Judaism and of Jews have all history 
and much reason on their side, and dis- 
play those powers of intellectual intuition 
of the future which the psychological sys- 
tem of Maimonides assigns to the prophet. 
And we have perhaps contributed some- 
what to an explanation of Deronda's ac- 
ceptance of his spiritual inheritance. Like 
Mordecai, Deronda protests against the 
" blasphemy of the time," that men should 
stand by* as spectators of life instead of 
living. But before he meets with Morde- 
cai what noble work in life has this young 
and cultured Englishman with his thou- 
sands a year ? Tliis age of unfaith gives 
no outlet for his deep, spiritual yearnings 
(nor for those of thousands like him). The 
old beliefs are gone : the world is godless, 
and Deronda cannot, for all the critics 
have said, offer to Gwendolen Grandcourt 
any consolation in a higher order of things 
instead of the vague platitudes which 
alone remain to be offered. Yet there 
comes to this young, ardent soul an angel 
of the Lord (albeit in the shape of a poor 
Jew watch-mender) with a burning mes- 
sage, giving a mission in life as grand as 
the most far-reaching ideal he could have 
formed. Is it strange that his thirsty 
soul should have swallowed up the soul of 
Mordecai, in the Cabalistic way which the 
latter often refers to? Is it strange that 
Deronda should not have refused the her- 
itage of his race when offered by the 
hands of Mirah's brother? But is it not 
strange that the literary leaders of En- 
.^land should have failecl to see aught but 
unsatisfactory vagueness in all the parts 
of " Daniel Deronda " which treat of 
the relations of the hero with Mordecai 
Cohen? Is it possible that they have 
failed to see the grandeur and beauty of 
these incidents because of the lack of that 
force of imagination necessary to pierce 
to the pathos of a contemporary tragedy, 
however powerful their capacity might be 
to see the romance of a Rebecca of York 
or the pathos of a Baruch Spinoza ? 

One possible source of misconception 
for English readers may be mentioned. 



Since the time of Moses Mendelssohn the 
home of spiritual Judaism has been in 
Germany, and George Eliot, whose pages 
are informed with tlie writings of German 
Jews like Zunz, Geiger, and Gratz, has 
with true historic insight attributed Mor- 
decai's spiritual birth to the teachings of 
his German uncle. English Judaism is 
without signs of life : the only working of 
the spirit, the abortive reform agitation, 
was due to a similar movement in Ger- 
many. And English Jews have them- 
selves much to blame for the neglect that 
English criticism has shown for Mordecai. 

What we have ■ attempted to show has 
been that the adverse criticism on the Mor- 
decai part of " Daniel Deronda " has been 
due to lack of sympathy and want of knowl- 
edge on the part of the critics, and hence 
its failure is not (if we must use the word) 
objective. If a young lady refuses to see 
any pathos in Othello's fate because she 
dislikes dark complexions, we blame the 
young lady, not Shakespeare : and if the 
critics have refused to see the pathos of 
Mordecai's fate because he is a Jew of 
the present day — so much the worse for 
the critics ! 

We have not attempted to criticise 
" Daniel Deronda " as a whole. Whether 
it errs in the juxtapositions of two parts 
appealing to such widely diverse interests, 
or in the position of the hero — which 
seems to partake of that unstable equilib- 
rium which the proverb assigns to him 
that sitteth on two stools — or in the fre- 
quent introduction of physiological psy- 
chology couched in Spenserian phrase- 
ology, we have not cared to inquire. We 
have only spoken because we have some 
of the knowledge and all of the sympathy 
which alone, we contend, are needed to 
make the Mordecai part of " Daniel 
Deronda " as great a success as all must 
acknowledge to have attended the part 
relating to Gwendolen Harleth. If this 
be so, the lovers of Enghsh literature will 
have the gratification of knowing that the 
hand of one ot our greatest artists has not 
lost its cunning in these last days. In- 
deed, if a higher subject argue higher fac- 
ulties, the successful treatment of a greit 
world-problem would seem to be an ad- 
vance on her previous studies of village 
life. 

One word more of explanation. I have 
spoken throughout the above remarks in 
the plural, as feeling that most of what 1 
have said would be shared by all Jews 
who have the knowledge and the sym- 
pathy which enable them to recognize in 
Mordecai Cohen not only the finest rep- 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



121 



resentative of their religion and race in 
all literature, but also the most impres- 
sive personality in English fiction. 

Joseph Jacobs. 



From The Examiner. 
GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 

BY WILLIAM BLACK. 

AUTHOR OF " THE ADVKNTURBS OF A PHABTON," ** THB 
PRINCB&S OF THULB/' BTC 

CHAPTER XXIV, 
CHRISTMAS SENTIMENT. 

There is no saying what a man, even 
of the strictest virtue, will do for the sake 
of his wife. But, curiously enough, when 
Hugh Balfour found himself confronted by 
these two disagreeable demands — that he 
should lend or give a sum to Lord Willowby 
in order that a very disgraceful transaction 
should be hushed up ; and that he should 
dine on Christmas evening with that peer 
of doubtful morals and his still more dis- 
reputable brother — he found far more 
difficulty in assenting to the latter than 
to the former proposition. That was a 
matter of a few moments — the writing a 
few figures on a cheque ; this was spend- 
ing a whole evening, and Christmas even- 
ing too, in the company of people whom 
he despised and detested. But what will 
not a man do for his wife ? 

Either concession was a sufficiently bit- 
ter draught to drink. He had always been 
keenly scrupulous about money matters; 
and impatiently harsh and contemptuous in 
his judgment of those who were otherwise. 
He had formed a pronounced antipathy 
against Lord Willowby ; and a man does 
not care to strain his conscience or modify 
his creed for a person whom he dislikes. 
Then, there was the possibility of a pub- 
lic disclosure, which would probably reveal 
the fact that he had lent Lord Willowby 
this money. Could he defend himself 
by saying that he had counselled Lord 
Willowby, before lending him the money, 
to go into court and clear himself? He 
would not do that. When he gave that 
advice, with mock humility, he knew per- 
fectly that Lord Willowby was only pre- 
varicating. He knew that this precious 
father-in-law of his was hopelessly entan- 
gled in a fraud which he had either con- 
cocted or condoned. If this money were 
to be lent at all, it was frankly to be lent 
in order that the man who threatened to 
inform should be bought over to hold his 



peace. But then what is it that a young 
and devoted husband will not do for his 
wife ? 

Moreover, the more distressing of the 
two demands had to be met first. Lord 
Willowby told him that his partners in 
that ^scheme of cheating the jobbers had 
resolved to meet on the first of the new 
year, to consider what was to be done ; so 
that in the mean time Balfour could allow 
his conscience to rest so far as the money 
was concerned. But in the mean time 
came Christmas ; and he told his wife that 
he had no objection to joining that family 
party at the Hall. When he said that 
he nad no objection, he meant that he 
had about twenty dozen, which he would 
overrule for her sake. And indeed Lady 
Sylvia's delight at his consent was beau- 
tiful to see. She spent day after day in 
decorating Willowby Hall with evergreens ; 
she did not attogelher neglect the Lilacs, 
but then, you see, there was to be no 
Christmas party there. She sang at her 
work ; she was as busy as she could be ; 
she even wished — in the fulness of her 
heart — that her cousin Honoria were 
already arrived to help her. And Balfour ? 
Did he assist in that pretty and idyllic 
pastime ? Oddly enough, he seemed to 
take a greater interest than ever in the 
Von Rosens, and some neighbors of theirs. 
He was constantly over among us ; and 
that indefatigable and busy idler, the Ger- 
man ex-lieutenant, and he were to be seen 
every day starting off on some new busi- 
ness — a walking-match, a run with the 
Thistlewhippers, a sale of hay belonging 
to the railway, in fact, anything that did 
not lead those two in the airection of Wil- 
lowby Hall. On one occasion he suddenly 
said to our Queen T 

" Don't you think Christmas is a terribly 
dull business ? " 

" We don't find it so," said that smiling 
person ; " we find it terribly noisy — enough 
to ruin one's nerves for a week.'* 

" Ah," said he, " that is quite different. 
I can understand your enjoying Christmas 
when you have a children's party to oc- 
cupy the evening." 

*' I am sure," said our Sovereign Mis- 
tress, who, to do her justice, is always 
ready with little kindnesses, " I am quite 
sure we should all be so glad if you and 
Lady Sylvia would come over and spend 
the evening with us, we would make 
Lady Sylvia the presiding fairy to distrib- 
ute the gifts from the Christmas-tree — it 
is the most splendid one we have ever 
had " 

" You are very kind," said he, with a 



122 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



sigh. " I wish I could. There is other 
joy in store for me. I have to dine with 
some of my father-in-law's relatives ; and 
we shall have an evening devoted to bad 
wine and the Tichborne case." 

And at length Christmas-day came 
round ; and then it appeared that Mr. Bal- 
four was expected to go from church to 
Willowby Hall and remain {here until the 
evening. This, he considered, was not in 
the bond. He had managed to make the 
acquaintance of a certain clergyman in the 
neighborhood of Englebury; and this 
worthy person had just forwarded him the 
proof-sheets of an essay on some public 
question or other, with a meek request 
that Mr. Balfour would glance over it and 
say whether the case of the enemy had 
been fairly and fully stated. This was 
courageous and honest on the part of the 
parson ; for Mr. Balfour was on the side 
of the enemy. Now as this article was to 
be published in a monthly magazine, was 
it not of great importance that the answer 
should be returned at once ? If Lady 
Sylvia would ^o on to the Hall with her 
papa, he, Balfour, would return to the 
Lilacs, get this bit of business over, and 

i'oin the gay family party in the evening, 
-ady Sylvia seemed rather disappointed 
that this clergyman should have deprived 
her husband of the pleasure of spending 
the whole day in the society of her rela- 
tives ; but she consented to the arrange- 
ment, and Balfour, with much content, 
spent Christmas-day by himself. 

And then, in the hush of the still and 
sacred evening, this happv family party 
met round the Christmas Doard. It was 
a pleasant picture, for the bare dining- 
room looked no longer bare, when it was 
laden with scarlet berries and green leaves, 
and Lord Willowby could not protest 
against a waste of candles on such a night. 
Then, with his beautiful young wife pre- 
siding at the head of the table — herself 
the perfect type of gentle English woman- 
hood — and Honoria Blythe*s merry black 
eyes doing their very best to fascinate and 
entertain him, why should this ungrateful 
Scotch boor have resolved to play the part 
of Apemantus ? Of course, he was out- 
wardly very civil — nay, formally cour- 
teous ; but there was an air of isolation 
about him, as if he were sitting there by 
an exercise of constraint. He rarely took 
wine anywhere ; when he did, he almost 
never noticed what he drank : why was it, 
therefore, that he now tasted everything, 
and put the glass down as if he were calcu- 
lating whether sudden death might not en- 
sue? And when Major Blythe, after 



talking very loudly for some time, men- 
tioned the word " Tichborne," why should 
this young man ejaculate — apparently to 
himself — ** O good Lord ! " in a tone thit 
somehow or other produced a dead silence. 

" Perhaps it is no matter of concern to 
you," said Major Blythe, with as much 
ferocity as he aared to assume towards a 
man who might possibly lend him money, 
" that an innocent person should be so 
brutally treated ? " 

" Not much," said Balfour, humbly. 

" I dare say you have not followed the 
case very closely, Balfour," said his lord- 
ship, intervening to prevent a dispute. 

** No, I have not," he said. " In fact, I 
would much rather walk the other way. 
But then," he added to Miss Honoria, who 
was seated by him, "your papi must not 
imagine that I have not an opinion as to 
who the claimant really is." 

" No ! " exclaimed Honoria, with her 
splendid eyes full of theatrical interest. 
" Who is he, then ? " 

" I discovered the secret from the very 
beginning. The old prophecies have been 
fulfilled. The ravens have flown away. 
Frederick Barbarossa has come back to 
the world at last." 

"Frederick Barbarossa?" said Miss 
Honoria, doubtfully. 

" Yes," continued her instructor, seri- 
ously. " His other name was O'Donovan. 
He was a Fenian leader." 

" Susan," called out her brat of a 
brother, " he's only making a fool of you " 
— but at any rate the sorry jest managed 
to stave off for a time the inevitable fight 
about the fat person from the colonies. 

It was a happy family gathering. Bal- 
four was so pleased to see a number of 
relatives enjoying themselves together in 
this manner that he would not for the 
world have the party split itself into two 
after dinner. Remain to drink Madeira 
when the ladies were going to sing their 
pious Christmas hymns in the other room ? 
Never! Major Blythe said by Gad he 
wasn't going into the drawing-room just 
yet ; and poor Lord Willowby looked 
hopelessly at both, not knowing which to 
yield to. Naturally, his duties as host 
prevailed. He sat down with his brother, 
and offered him some Madeira, which, to 
tell the truth, was very good indeed, for 
Lord Willowby was one of the men who 
think they can condone the poisoning of 
their guests during dinner by giving them 
a decent glass of wine afterwards. Balfour 
went into the drawing-room, and sat down 
by his wife, Honoria having at her request 
gone to the piano. 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



1^3 



"Whv don't you stay in the dining- 
room, Hugh ? " said she. 

" Ah," said he, with a sigh, ** Christmas 
evenings are far too short Jpr the joy they 
contain. I did not wish the happiness of 
this family gathering to be too much fla- 
vored with Tichborne. What is your 
cousin going to sing now — 

Oh, how sweet it is to see 
Brethren dwell in enmity 1 

or some such thing ? " 

She was hurt and offended. He had no 
right to scoff at her relatives ; because if 
there was any discordant element in that 
gathering it was himself. They were civil 
enough to him. They were not quarrel- 
ling among themselves. If there was any 
interference with the thoughts and feelings 
appropriate to Christmas, he was the evil 
spirit who was disturbing the emotions of 
those pious souls. 

Indeed, she did not know what demon 
had got possession of him. He went over 
to Mrs. Blythe, a woman whom she knew 
he heartily disliked, and sat down by that 
majestic tnree-decker, and paid her great 
and respectful attention. He praised 
Honoria's playing. He asked to what col- 
lege they meant to send Johnny, when that 
promising youth left school. He was glad 
to see the major looking so well and 
hearty; did he take his morning ride in 
the park yet.^ Mrs. Blythe, who was a 
dull woman, nevertheless had her suspi- 
cions ; but how could she fail to be civil to 
a gentleman who was complaisance per- 
sonified ? 

His spirits grew brighter and brighter ; 
he was quite friendly with Lord Willowby 
and his younger brother when they came 
in from the dining-room. Lady Sylvia 
deeply resented this courtesy, because she 
thought it arose from a sarcastic apprecia- 
tion of the incongruity of his presence 
there ; whereas it was merely the result of 
a consciousness that the hour of his re- 
lease was at hand. He had done his duty. 
He had sacrificed his own likings for the 
sake of his wife. He had got through 
bis distasteful dinner; and now he was 
going back to a snug room at the Lilacs, to 
a warm fire, an easy-chair, a pipe, and a 
friendly chat. 

But who can describe the astonishment 
of these simple folks when a servant came 
in to say that Mr. Balfour's carriage was 
at the door? Only ten o'clock — and 
this Christmas nigfit I 

" Surely there is some mistake, Hugh ? " 
said his young wife, looking at him with 



great surprise. " You don't wish to go 
home now ? " 

" Oh^ yes, child," said he, gravely. " I 
don't want to have you knocked up. It 
has been a long day tor you to-day." 

She said not another word ; but got up, 
and went to the door. 

** Come, Sylvia," said her father, who 
had opened the door for her, "you must 
give us another hour, anyway : you are not 
very tired ? Shall I tell him to take the 
horses out again?" 

" No, thank you," said she, coldly. " I 
think I will go now." 

*' I am sorry," said Balfour, when she 
had gone, "to break up your charming 
Christmas party; but the fact is, Sylvia 
has been very fatigued ever since she put 
up those evergreens ; and I am rather 
afraid of the night air for her." 

He did not explain what was the differ- 
ence between the night air of ten o'clock 
and the night air of eleven o'clock ; for 
presently Lady S^'lvia came down-stairs 
again, wrappea up in furs ; and she was 
escorted out to the carriage with great 
ceremony by her father. She was silent 
for a time after they drove away. 

" Hugh," she said abruptly, by-and-by, 
" why do you dislike my relatives so ? And 
if you do dislike them, I think you might 
try to conceal it, for my sake." 

" Well," said he, " I do think that is 
rather ungrateful. I thought I went out 
of my way to be civil to them all round to- 
night I think I was most tremendously 
civil. What was it, then, that displeased 
you ? " 

She did not answer; she was oppressed 
by bitter thoughts. And when he tried to 
coax her into conversation, she replied in 
monosyllables. In this manner they 
reached the Lilacs. 

Now before leaving home that evening 
he had given private instructions that a 
pretty little supper was to be prepared for 
their return; and when Lady Sylvia en- 
tered she found the dining-room all cheer- 
fully lit up, a fire blazing, and actual oysters 
(oysters don't grow on the hedgerows of 
Surrey, as some of us know) on the table. 
This was how he thought he and she might 
spend their first Christmas evening to- 
gether, late as the hour was ; and he has- 
tened to anticipate even the diligent Anne 
in helping his wife to get rid of her furs. 

" Now, Syllabus," said he, " come in 
and make yourself comfortable." 

" Thank you," said she, " I am a little 
tired ; I think I will go up-stairs now." 

" Won't you come down again ? " 

« I think not." 



124 



POPULAR ERRORS. 



I 



And so, without any great sense of in- 
jury, and forgetting altogether the supper 
that was spread out on the table, he shut 
himself up alone in the still dining-room, 
and lit his pipe, and took down a book 
from the library. Soon enough these 
temix)rary disappointments were forgotten; 
for it was a volume of Keats he had taken 
down at haphazard, and how could a man 
care about what happened to him on the 
first Christmas evening of his married life, 
if he was away in the dreamland of " En- 
dymion," and removed from mortal cares ? 

Major Blythe and his family remained 
at VVillowby Hall for some few days ; 
Lady Sylvia never went near them. Nay, 
she would not allow the name of one of 
her relations to pass her lips. If her hus- 
band mentioned any one of them, she 
changed the conversation ; and once, when 
he proposed to drive over to the Hall, she 
refused to go. 

On the other hand, she endeavored to 
talk politics to her husband, in a sti£E 
and forced way, which only served to dis- 
tress him. He remonstrated with her gen- 
tly — for, indeed, he was rather disap- 
ointed that his honest endeavors to please 
er had borne so little fruit — but she only 
grew more reserved in tone. And he 
could not understand why she should tor- 
ture herself by this compulsory conversa- 
tion about politics, foreign and domestic, 
when he saw clearly that her detestation of 
everything connected with his public lite 
increased day by day, until — merely to 
save her pain — he could have wished that 
there was no such place as Englebury on 
the map of England. 

He told her he had spoken to her father 
about these pecuniary troubles, and offered 
to assist him. She said that was very 
kind, and even kissed him on the fore- 
head, as she happened to be passing his 
chair; but not even that would induce her 
to talk about her father or anything be- 
longing to him. And, indeed, he himself 
could not be very explicit on the point, 
more especially as everything now pointed 
to his having to lend Lord Willowby 
money, not to hush up a fraud, but to 
defend a criminal prosecution. 

About the third week in January, all 
England was startled by the announce- 
ment that there was to be an immediate 
dissolution of Parliament, and that a gen- 
eral election would shortly follow. Bal- 
four did not seem so perturbed as might 
have been expected ; he even appeared to 
find some sense of relief in the sudden 
news. He at once grew active, bright, 
eager, and full of a hundred schemes, and 



the first thing he did was, of course, to 
rush up to London, the centre of all the 
hurry and disturbance that prevailed. 
Lady Sylvia naturally remained in Surrey ; 
he never thought for a moment of drag- 
ging her into that turmoil. 



From The Pall Mall Gazette. 
POPULAR ERRORS. 

In a very clever little book published 
not long since, M. Tarnier, inspector of 
primary instruction in Paris, called the at- 
tention of French teachers to an extraor- 
dinary number of mistakes he had discov- 
ered in popular educational works, as well 
as in examination papers and in the lan- 
guage used by examiners. He is consid- 
erate enough to mention no names, a 
circumstance at which one is perhaps the 
less inclined to wonder when the mon- 
strous character of some of the blunders 
exposed is considered. If French chil- 
dren are often taught that salamanders are 
incombustible and that they have the 
property of putting out fires, that the 
tongue of a viper darts out poison, that 
the pelican feeds its young with its own 
flesh, that dying swans sing, that earwigs 
penetrate through people's ears into their 
heads, and that a man's stomach is situ- 
ated in his chest — why, the subject of 
primary instruction in France clearly de- 
mands the urgent attention of statesmen. 
In respect of the first indicated of these 
mistakes, M. Tarnier shows a happy un- 
consciousness of the existence of societies 
for the total suppression of vivisection, 
etc, ; for he recommends anybody who 
believes salamanders incombustible to set 
one on a burning brazier, and watch the 
result. Some other errors instanced by 
M. Tarnier are probably very widely 
spread ; e.g. many persons, otherwise well- 
educated, speak of a bat as a bird and 
of a whale as a fish, whereas, of course, 
both bats and whales are mammals. The 
goose and the ass are again held up as 
examples of stupidity by people who 
ought to know belter. M. Tarnier thus 
takes up the defence of the goose : " * He 
is as silly as a goose.' I regret that want 
of space does not permit me to demon- 
strate the falsity of this saying by exam- 
ples chosen from domestic life, and in 
spite of the objection with which I may 
be met, that the goose allows itself to be 
plucked alive withouf uttering a cry. 
How would its cries help it? Its silence 
does honor to its philosophy. ... But 



POPULAR ERRORS. 



"S 



it will be said the goose looks silly. 
Agreed; but how many men look fools 
and are not ! And again, how many do 
not look fools, and are worse than fools ! 
Let us beware of -repeating even in jest 
such false maxims ; for, whatever people 
may say, proverbs are not always the 
quintessence of the wisdom of nations." 

So much for errors in zoology. Turn- 
ing to botany, what mistake is more com- 
mon than to speak of the potato as a 
•* root " ? As a matter of fact, it is a branch 
growing under the earth. In the language 
of science the iK)tato is a tubercle. In 
chemistry a popular error is to say that mer- 
cury is quicksilver. Mercury has no quick- 
silver at all in its composition. Who does 
not know the beautiful " silver paper," as 
children call it, which is wrapped round 
cakes of chocolate, and other good things ? 
It is popularly supposed to be of lead, and is 
really of tiri. " How heavy the air is ! " 
we occasionally say in these northern lati- 
tudes, especially when we " enjoy " the 
summer described by Horace Walpole of 
"three hot days and a thunderstorm." 
The expression is exactly the contrary of 
that which we should use. We say that the 
air is heavy when the pressure exercised 
by the atmosphere has diminished ; when, 
as a consequence, the air is lighter. 

An amusing chapter is given by M. 
Tarnier to " Young Ladies* Arithmetic," 
which is indeed often a fearful and won- 
drous thing. One error he points out, 
however, is shared by some members of 
the other sex. Thus you are told that you 
cannot add together three apples and two 
pears, whereas you can perfectly well, the 
result being five fruits. So four white- 
heart cherries -f- four black cherries = 
eight cherries. Two gold watches added 
to two pigs make four tangible entities. 

Some more errors may be picked at ran- 
dom from this instructive little work. Thus 
one has seen at the beginning of more 
than one grammar this statement : ** Gram- 
mar is the art of speaking and writing cor- 
rectly." Rather one should say, " Gram- 
mar is the science of language." The 
word " art " is clearly insufficient. Another. 
It is popularly said that Jacob served 
Laban seven years for Leah, and then 
served another seven years before he ob- 
tained RacheL Any one may find out for 
himself by a reference to Genesis xxix. 
21-30, that Jacob served seven years for 
Rachel and was then given Leah ; at the 
end of seven days more he was given 
Rachel, and served a second seven years 
for her after the marriage. It would a|> 
pear, by the way, according to M. Tarnier, 



that Jacob must have been eighty-four at 
the time of his two marriages ; also that 
Joseph was prime minister to the king of 
Egypt for a period of eighty years ; a 
thuught which may well make a French- 
man of the Third Republic sigh, the aver- 
age duration of a premiership under the 
marshal promising to be about five 
months. 

M. Tarnier hopes for much in instruc- 
tion not only by the removal of errors, but 
by intelligent methods of teaching. Many 
persons may scarcely realize how amus- 
ing, for instance, a memoria technicay well 
handled, can become. Thus take this 
study on the number 14 and Louis XIV. 
In the first place Louis was the 14th king 
of France who bore that name. He as- 
cended the throne at a date the figures 
of which added together make 14 (1643 
— I -f 6 -|- 4-1-3=14). He attained his 
majority at 14 and in 1652 (i4-6-|-5 
-|-2=i4). His personal government 
(C'Vdtat c'est mot'*) began with the death 
of Mazarin in 1661. Here again we have 
the same curious play of figures as in 1643 
and 1652: 14.6-1-6-1-1=14. His reign 
lasted 72 vears (7X2= 14). He died at 
the age of 77 (7-1-7=: 14). He died in 

^71$ (1-4-7+1 + 5=14). Henry IV., 
his grandfather, died on the 14th of May 
(1610); Louis XIII., his father, died on 
the 14th of May (1643). 

Here is a fact which it is helpful to re- 
member. There have been three groups 
of brothers who have sat on the throne of 
France. In each case the third brother 
has been the last of his line. Thus the 
three sons of Philip the Fair reigned one 
after the other, being known as Louis X. 
(le Hutin), Philip V., the Tall, and Charles 
IV., the Fair. After Charles IV. came 
the line of Valois in the person of Philip 
VI. In the sixteenth century we again 
see three brothers reigning in succession, 
Francis II., Charles Tx., Henry III., all 
sons of Catherine de Medici. With Henry 
III. was extinguished the line of Valois, 
which thus went with the same sign with 
which it came. The house of Bourbon, 
which succeeded it, also finally lost the 
throne after the reigns of three brothers, 
Louis XVI ., Louis XV 1 1 1., and Charles X., 
all grandsons of Louis XV. Curiously 
enough, the Norman line of the kings of 
England went out with two brothers, Wil- 
liam II. and Henry I., who reigned in suc- 
cession. Similarly, the house of Planla- 
genet was extinguished after the reign of 
two brothers, Edward IV. and Richard 
III., Edward V. having no more reigned 
than Louis XVII. The Tudor line be- 



126 



LITTLE TORTURES. 



came extinct with the reigns of two sis- 
ters ; the house of Stuart lost the throne 
after two brothers, and one might almost 
say after two sisters, had reigned in suc- 
cession. But, in truth, too many ingenious 
mental contrivances are practically spoiled 
because they have to be limited by some 
slight reservation. Thus M. Tarnier 
points out that the six cardinal ministers 
of France, the six famous ecclesiastics 
who have ruled her, were, ist, Cardinal 
La Balue, minister of Louis XL ; 2nd, 
Cardinal George d'Amboise, minister of 
Louis XII.; 3rd, Cardinal Richelieu, min- 
ister of Louis XIII.; 4th, Cardinal Maza- 
rin, minister of Louis XIV.; 5th, Cardinal 
Dubois, minister of Louis XV ; 6th, Car- 
dinal Fleury, and if only this excellent pre- 
late had been content to live a little later, 
and be the minister of Louis XVI. instead 
of serving his predecessor, he would have 
completed a singularly harmonious chron- 
ological list. In any case, five succeeding 
Louises have six cardinal ministers, the 
worst king of the series having two. It is 
only fair to remember, however, that Du- 
bois was not Louis's choice and Fleury 
was. 



From The Liberal Review. 
LITTLE TORTURES. 

Bad temper is one of the most pro- 
lific causes of misery in the world. It 
wrecks fortunes and breaks up house- 
holds. It is easy enough to pardon the 
man who has deeply wronged you, but it is 
difficult to subdue one*s exasperation at an 
individual who is invariably as difficult to 
approach as a hedgehog. The misfortune 
is that there are many such individuals, the 
majority of whom naturally appear to their 
fellows to be very unreasonable beings. 
They often have, however, more excuse 
for their conduct than is apparent. We 
say nothing now of business worries nor 
of mental disease. We refer to physical 
tortures of the minor order, which are as 
numerous as they are vexatious. Philoso- 
phers, of course, deem many of them un- 
worthy of consideration — when the 
philosophers are not themselves afflicted 
with them. But they are genuine causes 
of trouble, nevertheless, and will upset the 
equanimity of the mildest-tempered man. 
Take the case of Smiler, for instance. 
There is not a better nor a more equable 
creature in existence. He can remain 
calm when his cook sends him up an un- 
eatable dinner. The appearance of an 



unexpected milliner's bill is not sufficient 
to throw him off his balance. He is able 
to witness his sons playing havoc with his 
furniture without experiencing an inclina* 
tion to commit murder. But he has his 
moments of weakness, in which he be- 
comes the most unreasonable of men. 
The simple reason is that he is subject to 
bilious attacks. The world does not seem 
a pleasant place when it is contemplated 
through the medium of an upheaving 
stomach and a reeling head ; and there is 
really no reason to be surprised because 
Smiler, when he is being victimized by his 
liver, snarls when he is approached in the 
most unexceptionable manner, and fairly 
astonishes suppliants who ask him to do 
small favors, by the ferocity with which 
he declines to grant their requests. Yet 
the probability is that Smiler says nothing 
about his ailments to his acquaintances 
when he is out of sorts, he preferring to 
bear his martyrdom in what he conceives 
to be a dignified manner, and it is likely 
that in many cases they fail to discover 
why he is so fearfully and seemingly un- 
reasonably perverse. Chuckler, again, is 
a being who in a general way makes light 
of the cares of existence. He acts upon 
the principle that there is no use in meet- 
ing trouble half way, and that the world is 
really a very good world if people will 
only make the best of it. He can bear a 
crushing misfortune with a fair share of 
composure, and is superior to the petty 
annoyances of life. But he, too, has his 
moments of feebleness. He is the unfor- 
tunate possessor of decayed teeth. These 
decayed teeth occasionally ache, and when 
they ache they put him out of temper. 
His condition is not improved by the fact 
that people are disposed to make light of 
his misfortune. " Why, what's the mat- 
ter, old fellow ? " is the query which is 
addressed to him ; and the question is, 
perhaps, supplemented by a slap on the 
back. " Toothache ? Oh, is that all ? 
Have the rascal out. My old fang ached 
for a month, and would have gone on ach- 
ing until now if I had not had it out." To 
hear one's toothache spoken of as " is that 
all " is in itself aggravating, but it is 
worse to be told in enect that the erring 
tooth will probably go on aching for a 
month, and that it will be necessary at last 
to pay a visit to a dentist, with the awful 
prospect that the head in which the tooth 
is rooted will then almost be torn from its 
trunk. Yet this is the supercilious way in 
which toothache is always treated. One is 
not permitted to constitute himself an in- 
valid on the score of it ; one is not nude 



WILLIAM CAXTON 



127 



an object of the deepest solicitude on its 
account ; yet one often, when afflicted with 
it, suffers as much downright agonv as 
does the patient who is sick unto death 
with some dangerous malady. 

We never knew a jJerson pitied because 
he had corns. Yet corns, as instruments 
of torture, are worth very serious atten- 
tion. The individual who gets plucking 
at one, after he has retired to rest, is not 
likely to discontinue his work until he has 
suffered much downright discomfort both 
of mind and body. There is something so 
irresistibly fascinating about a corn, that 
when one has commenced to attack it he 
is unable to discontinue his work, however 
much he mav be pained meanwhile, and 
however much sleep he may be deprived 
of until he has completed his work of de- 
struction. Yet corns are never even men- 
tioned in the category of ailments. No 
one ever heard of a man being asked how 
his corns were. Most people would, in- 
deed, probably feel insulted if mere ac- 
Quaintances were to make inquiries as to 
the state of their poor feet. Notwithstand- 
ing, there are moments when corns will 
overthrow the most stoical. When they are, 
for instance, trodden upon by ten stone 
and upwards in the shape of a man, they 
are apt to indicate their existence, in a 
manner which makes their proprietor 
wince and assume as sour an expression 
as that of the person who has taken a 
draught of vinegar in mistake for Moselle. 
Indeed, it is not unlikely that he may at 
such a time, however discreet he may gen- 
erally be in his choice of terms, be tempted 
to use profane language. Ladies who ap- 
pear in ball-rooms, of course, never de- 
scend to the use of naughtv expressions, 
but many a lovely female face has been 
seen to become as dark as thunder when 
upon its owner's dainty feet some clumsy 
brute has trodden to the extreme annoy- 
ance of her corn. This look has more 
than once been detected by interested 
onlookers, and contemplated proposals of 
marriage have never come off because 
amorous men have noticed the gloomy 
looks which have followed such a misad- 
venture as that referred to above. 

The moral to be drawn from all this is 
that it is well to suspend judgment upon 
those who display temper apparently with- 
out adequate cause, and to regard " minor 
tortures " in a less contemptuous manner 
than they have so far been regarded. 



From The Fireside. 
WILLIAM CAXTON. 



William Caxton, the first Endish 
printer, was a Kentish man, born about 
141 2. His parents were worthy people, 
and it is memorable that at a time when, 
from political troubles and the unsettled 
state of the country, education was neg- 
lected, the parents of Caxton reared their 
son carefully. " I am bounden," says he, 
" to pray for my father's and mother's 
souls, that in my youth sent me to school, 
by which by the sufferance of God I get 
my living, I hope truly." He was appren- 
ticed to a citizen of London, a mercer, 
that name being then given to designate 
a general merchant trading in various 
goods. That Caxton was a diligent and 
faithful apprentice may be inferred from 
the fact that his master, William Large, in 
1441 left him in his will a legacy of £1^9 
6s. Sd,, a handsome sum in those days. 
After he received this legacy he went 
abroad, being probably engaged in mercan- 
tile pursuits. He continued for the most 
part in the countries of Brabant, Flanders, 
Holland, and Zeeland, all at this time 
under the dominion of the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, one of the most powerful princes 
of Europe. While Caxton's countrymen 
were contesting in the battle-field the 
claim of the rival houses of York and 
Lancaster, he was exercising his acute and 
observant mind, acquiring the French and 
Dutch languages, and preparing himself, 
by a peaceful and thoughtful life, for his 

freat work as a benefactor to his country, 
n 1464 he was sent on a mission by Ed- 
ward IV., to continue and confirm some 
important treaties of commerce with the 
Duke of Burgundy. The Low Countries 
were at that time the great mart of Europe, 
and Caxton, bred to commerce, from his 
experience would be able to enter into 
treaties beneficial to his own long-trou- 
bled land. In 1450, Gutenberg, generally 
considered to be the first printer, entered 
into partnership with Fust, a rich merchant 
of Mentz, who supplied the sums neces- 
sary to carry the invention into effect. 
Charles, the son and successor to the Duke 
of Burgundy, whom Caxton had known, first 
married Margaret, sister to our Edward 
IV., and Caxton, who could scarcely have 
been a merchant on his own account, was 
appointed to some post in the household 
of the duchess. The exact nature and 
salary of his office are not known, but he 
was on terms of familiar intercourse with 
Margaret, who seems to have rightly 
appreciated her estimable countryman. 



128 



A NEW STIMULANT— PITURY. 



Caxton bad been deeply interested in the 
new and wondrous art of printing, and he 
had exercised himself in making some 
translations from books that pleased him. 
** In 1469," he says, " having no great 
charge or occupation, and wishing to 
eschew sloth and idleness, which is the 
mother and nourisher of vices, having 
good leisure, being at Cologne, I set about 
finishing the translation [ofthe " Histories 
of Troy"]. When, however, I remem- 
bered my simpleness and imperfections in 
French and Endish, I fell in despair of 
my works, and after I had written five or 
six quairs, purposed no more to have con- 
tinued therein, and the quairs [books] laid 
apart, and in two years after labored no 
more in this work, till in a time it fortuned 
the Lady Margaret sent for me to speak 
with her good Grace of divers matters, 
among the which I let her have knowl- 
edge of the foresaid beginning." "The 
duchess," he adds, " found fault with myne 
English, which she commanded me to 
amend, and to continue and make an end 
of the residue; which command I durst 
not disobey." The duchess both encour- 
aged and rewarded him liberally. He 
mentions in the prologue and epilogue to 
this book that his eyes are dim with over- 
much looking on the white paper, and that 
age was creeping on him daily, and en- 
feebling all his body ; that he " had 
learned and practised at great charge and 
dispense to ordain this said book in print, 
ana not written with pen and ink, as other 
books be." This, it seems, was not the 
first book be had printed at Cologne. 
He returned to England about 1472, when 
he would be sixty years old, after having 
lived thirty years on the Continent. He 
brouglit with him some unsold copies of 
the works he had printed at Cologne. 
Thomas Milling, Bishop of Hereford and 
Abbot of Westminster, was Caxton's first 
patron. It was probably by his permis- 
sion that Caxton set up his printing- 
press in the almonry or one of the chapels 
attached to the Abbey. 



From Nature. 
A NEW STIMULANT — PITURY. 

Baron von Mueller writes to the 
A ustralian Medical Jourtial on the origin 



of the pitury, a stimulant said to be of 
marvellous power and known to be in use 
by the aborigines of central Australia. 
After vears of efforts to get a specimen of 
the plant, he had obtained leaves, but 
neither flowers nor fr,uits. He can almost 
with certainty, after due microscopic exam- 
ination, pronounce those of the pitury as 
derived from his Duboisia Hopwoodii, de- 
scribed in 1 861 (Fragm, Phytogr, Aus/r,^ 
ii. 138). This bush extends from the 
Darling River and Barcoo to West Aus- 
tralia, through desert scrubs, but is of 
exceedingly sparse occurrence anywhere. 
In fixing the origin of the pitury, a wide 
field for further inquiry is opened up, inas- 
much as a second species of Duboisia {D, 
myoporoides^ R, Br.) extends in forest land 
from near Sydnev to near Cape York, and 
is traced also to New Caledonia, and lately 
by him also to New Guinea. In all protJ- 
ability this D, myoporoides shares the 
properties of D, Hopwoodii^ as he finds 
that both have the same burning, acrid 
taste. Baron Mueller adds: ** Though 
the first known species is so near to us, 
we never suspected any such extraordinary 
properties in it as are now established for 
the later discovered species. Moreover, 
the numerous species of the allied genus 
AnthocerciSy extending over the greater 
part of the Australian continent and to 
Tasmania, should now also be tasted, and 
further the many likewise cognate Schwen^' 
keas of South America should be drawn 
into the same cyclus of research, nothing 
whatever of the properties of any of these 
plants being known. The natives of cen- 
tral Australia chew the leaves of Duboisia 
Hopwoodiiy just as the Peruvians and 
Chilians masticate the leaves of the coca 
i^Ery thro xy Ion coca\ to invigorate them- 
selves during their long foot journeys 
through the deserts. I am not certain 
whether the aborigines of all districts in 
which the pitury grows are really aware 
of its stimulating power. Those living 
near the Barcoo travel many days' jour- 
neys to obtain this, to them, precious 
foliage, which is carried always about by 
them broken into small fragments and 
tied up in little bags. It is not improb- 
able that a new and perhaps important 
medicinal plant is thus gained. The 
blacks use the Duboisia to excite their 
courage in warfare; a large dose infuri- 
ates them." 



LITTELL'S LIVING AGE. 



Fifth Series, ^ 



No. 1727. - July 21, 1877. 



( Prom Begixmingi 
I Vol. CXIXIV. 



CONTENTS. 

I. Maoris and Kanakas, .... Fortnightly Review^ 

II. Pauline. By L. B. Walford, author of " Mr. 

Smith," etc Part VIII., .... Advance Sheets^ . 

III. Georges d'Amboise, Temple Bar^ 

IV. The Marquis of Lossie. By George Mac 

Donald, author of " Malcolm/' etc. Part 

XXL, Advance Sheets^ , 

V. A Leaf of* Eastern History, . . . Fortnightly Review^ 

VL Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By 

William Black. Part XXL, • . . Examiner^ • • 

VIL Crema and the Crucifix Comhill Magagine, 

VIII. The Results of the Invention of the 

Sewing-Machine, Economist^ . 

IX. The Dog of the Barracks, . • . . Leisure Ilour^ 

X. Japanese Mirrors, Nature^ 

XL A Dog Aiding in Smuggling, . • . Leisure Hour^ 

POETR Y. 

No More Sea, 1301 The Evening Time, . 

So IS THE Story Told, . . . 130 1 Lord Justice Melush, 



»3» 

U3 
152 

164 
174 

179 
182 

187 
190 
191 
192 



130 
130 



PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY 

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NO MORE SEA, ETC. 



NO MORE SEA. 

There shall be no more sea : no wild winds 
bringing 
Their stormy tidings to the rocky strand, 
With its scant grasses, and pale sea-flowers 
springing 
From out the barren sand. 

No angry wave, from cliff and cavern hoary, 
To hearts that tremble at its mournful lore ; 

Bearing on shattered sail and spar the story 
Of one who comes no more ; 

The loved and lost, whose steps no more may 
wander 
Where wild gorse sheds its blooms of living 
gold, 
Nor slake his thirst where mountain nils me- 
ander 
Along the heathy wold. 

Never again through flowery dingles wending. 
In the hushed stillness of the sacred morn. 

By shady woodpaths, where tall poppies, bend- 
ing. . 
Redden the ripening corn. 

Neath whispering leaves his rosy children 
gather 
In the grcv hamlet's simple place of graves. 
Round the low tomb where sleeps his white- 
haired father, 
Far from the noise of waves. 

There shall be no more sea! No surges 
sweeping 
0*er love and youth, and childhood's sunny 
hair: 
Naught of decay and change, nor voice of 
weeping 
Ruftic the fragrant air 

Of that fair land within whose pearly portal 

The golden light falls soft on fount and tree ; 
Vexed by no tempest, stretch those shores 
immortal. 
Where there is no more sea. 
Argosy. J» !• L» 



SO IS THE STORY TOLD. 

A FAIR head meekly bowed, 
A shy glance coming after, 
Voices not over loud, 
And a low sweet laughter : 
So is the story told 
Up in the cottage old 
Under the smoky rafter. 

A fair maid flushing red 

With an unknown feeling. 
But shamed to bow her head 
For all her lover's kneeling : 
So is the story told 
Down 'mid the white and gold 
Under the painted ceiling. 
Blackwood's Magazine. ]• R* S. 



THE EVENING TIME 

Together we walked in the evenincj time, 
Above us the sky spread golden and clear. 
And he bent his head and looked in my eyes. 
As if he held me of all most dear. 
Oh I it was sweet in the evening time ! 

Grayer the light grew and grayer still, 

The rooks flitted home through the purple 

shade ; 
The nightingales sang where the thorns stood 

high. 
As I walked with him in the woodland glade. 
Oh ! it was sweet in the evening time ! 

And our pathway went through fields of wheat ; 
Narrow that path and rough the way, 
But he was near, and the birds sang' true, 
And the stars came out in the twilight gray. 
. Oh ! it was sweet in the evening time 1 

Softly he spoke of the days long past. 
Softly of blessed days to oe ; 
Close to his arm and closer I prest 
The corn-field path was Eden to me. 
Oh ! it was sweet in the evening time ! 

And the latest gleams of daylight died ; 

Nfy hand in his enfolded lay ; 

We swept the dew from the wheat as we 

passed. 
For narrower, narrower, wound the way. 
Oh I it was sweet in the evening time 1 

He looked in the depths of my eyes and said, 
" Sorrow and gladness will come for us, sweet ; 
But together we'll walk through the fields of 

life 
Close as we walked through the fields of 

wheat.'* 

Good Words. A. C. C. 



LORD JUSTICE MELLISH. 

Brave squI, who well the anguish didst en- 
dure 
Of thy life's scourge ; controlling more and 

more 
By patient will the taint, which baflled cure, 
Of tell disease ; while, rich in varied store, 
In subtlest reason schooled, the unclouded 

brain 
Braved toil and keen encounter, in disdain 
Of curtained ease and tendance, to explore 
The law's dim labyrinths and rugged lore. 
Great advocate I who nobly didst maintain 
The entrusted cause, while throbbed each 

ner\'e with pain ; 
Judge of high aim, clear thought, unruflled 

mien. 
Masking thine inward pangs with brow serene ! 
Soldier of Him who vanquished pain, well 

done ! 
Joy to each loyal heart I thy well-earned rest 

is won. 

Spectator. 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



131 



From The Fortnightly Review. 
MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 

In the quarter of the globe commonly 
known as Polynesia the various influences, 
natural and artificial, which are every- 
where at work, tending to diminish the 
variety of existing organic types and to 
establish a general uniformity in the as- 
pect of nature and of human society, 
appear to operate at present with peculiar 
rapidity. We find there the remains of a 
submerged continent, planed down be- 
neath the sea-level, above which are vis- 
ible only a few volcanic summits and a 
number of coral islets and reefs. The 
vast Pacific Ocean covers nearly half the 
earth's surface, and that portion of it 
called Polynesia, over which the " Many 
Islands " are scattered, may be styled one 
of the four quarters of the globe, to which 
in area it is approximately equal. Through- 
out this watery waste the only consider- 
able tract of land is the insular group of 
New Zealand, exceeding somewhat in 
area the island of Great Britain. The next 
largest group is the Hawaiian, at the op- 
posite extremity of Polynesia, containing 
eight inhabited islands, whose aggregate 
area is not much greater than that of 
Yorkshire. The remaining groups of 
Polynesia proper consist of islets so insig- 
nificant in size, that the total aggregate of 
land in this ocean expanse is smaller than 
the United Kingdom of Great Britain and 
Ireland. All these fragments of a conti- 
nent are inhabited by a kindred people ; 
they are known generally as " Kanakas '* 
(meaning simply " men ") ; but in New 
Zealand the natives style themselves the 
" Maori," or pure race, in contradis- 
tinction to the " Pakeha," pr stranger. 
Apart from the general attractions of their 
character and history, a special and tragic 
interest attaches to these Polynesians in 
all their branches, for their annihilation, 
as a distinct race, appears to be inevitable 
within a very few years. Nowhere has 
the destructive effect even of a peaceable 
European invasion been so marked as in 
Polynesia; nowhere have the robust in- 
vaders so rapidly established themselves 
to the extinction of feebler, if not inferior, 
breeds. The unequal nature of the strug- 
gle between the highly organized types 



familiar to us here and those which have 
been developed under a less severe com- 
petition, is most clearly exhibited in New 
Zealand, whose climate resembles that of 
western Europe. The fauna and flora of 
a small, insulated land surface have in this 
case been brought into direct collision 
with those of the great northern province, 
evolved as the survivors of many compet- 
ing types. 

The ultimate result might have been 
anticipated, but the rapidity with which it 
has been brought about is somewhat start- 
ling. In certain districts settled a good 
many years ago, the native plants and 
animals have, with a few exceptions, al- 
ready disappeared, and are replaced by 
those of Europe. In particular, the only 
conspicuous flowers and birds are those 
which make gay our own fields and hedge- 
rows, while indigenous specimens must be 
sought for carefully if they are to be found at 
all. Around Christchurch and Nelson the 
air rings with the song of skylarks and 
blackbirds, and is redolent with the scent 
of hawthorn and sweetbriar. A few years 
ago Dr. Haast, curator of the Canterbury 
Museum, visited a remote district in the 
Middle Island, where he found some three 
hundred different species of indigenous 
plants, about one-third of them being new 
to science. Quite recently he paid a 
second visit to the same district, and could 
only discover about ten per cent, of the 
species formerly seen ; the rest had van- 
ished before the face of European settlers. 
The only gallinaceous bird indigenous in 
New Zealand is a species of quail, which 
was in many places very abundant a short 
time ago. It is now difficult to obtain a 
single living specimen, although the bird 
has undergone no severe persecution, and 
attempts have even been made to preserve 
it by an ex-premier of New Zealand, 
Meanwhile the Californian quail has been 
introduced and flourishes, and Chinese 
pheasants have overspread the country. 

The native rat, the only terrestrial 
mammal found in New Zealand by Euro- 
pean discoverers, has so completely dis- 
appeared, that many naturalists are scepti- 
cal as to its having ever existed, and the 
little island in Lake Taupo is said to be its 
only remaining habitat. On the other 



132 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



hand, the common brown rat, the faithful 
companion of the white man in all his 
wanderings, has taken complete possession 
of a country where its increase is restrict- 
ed by no reptiles nor quadrupeds, and few 
birds of prey, and is encountered far be- 
yond any settlements of its human fellow- 
colonists, close to the glaciers of the New 
Zealand Alps. The honey-bee of Europe 
has established itself as a very successful 
settler in the Southern Hemisphere, and 
has not merely suppressed the feeble in- 
sect rivals which it found there, but also in 
some parts appears to have caused a 
marked reduction in the number of honey- 
sucking birds. The destruction of timber 
is so universally the result of colonization, 
that the denudation of New Zealand is 
exceptional only inasmuch as an exotic 
vegetation is already replacing the prime- 
val forest, which cattle and fire rather 
than the axe have annihilated. Near 
Christchurch, in the Middle Island, where 
extensive plantations of English trees and 
shrubs give to the country an aspect like 
that of an English midland county, there 
remains one small patch only of the virgin 
forest a few acres in extent. With the 
utmost care this interesting relic has been 
preserved by one of the earliest settlers, 
and, thanks to him, his younger fellow- 
citizens can still realize what sort of vege- 
tation covered the Canterbury plains when 
he first landed in New Zealand. 

Indeed, it may be said that the indige- 
nous animals and plants of New Zealand 
succumb without a struggle, whether to 
the domesticated varieties imported by the 
white man for his own benefit, or to those 
noxious creatures and weeds of which he 
is the involuntary introducer. Of the 
human aboriginals, however, this does not 
hold true ; in no sense are they a helpless 
or a feeble folk ; to force they have never 
succumbed without a determined resist- 
ance, and they have readily adapted them- 
selves to such peaceful changes as foreign 
civilization demands. 

Nevertheless, the Maori race, gallant, 
vigorous, and intelligent beyond any so- 
called savages with whom we have ever 
been brought into collision, seems doomed 
to the same fate which is overtaking the 
feeble, short-winged birds characteristic of 



the Polynesian fauna. Official statistics 
confirm the universal impression, among 
colonists and natives alike, that the Maoris 
arc dying out. In 1849, Sir George Grey 
estimated their numbers at one hundred 
and twenty thousand, and since then they 
have rapidly declined; in 1858 a native 
census resulted in a total of fifty-six thou- 
sand ; and at the enumeration of 1874 
there were 45,470 Maoris in the whole 
colony, all except a couple of thousand 
being inhabitants of the North Island. If 
this rate of reduction continues the 
" Maori difficulty " will soon solve itself, 
and there will be room in the North Island 
for many more cattle and sheep ; but a 
brave, generous, intelligent race of men 
will disappear, and many, even of those who 
will inherit their territory, cannot regard 
this disappearance without regret. 

When white men speak of those with 
dark skins whom they are subduing or 
supplanting, their language is not gener- 
ally complimentary. It is therefore an 
agreeable surprise for a traveller in New 
Zealand to hear the tone of respect, even 
of admiration, in which the Maoris are 
habitually discussed by the colonists. 
Such sentiments redound indeed to the 
credit of both races, for they are mainly 
due to the military prowess of the Maoris, 
and prove that Englishmen bear no grudge 
against a gallant foe for stalwart blows 
taken in fair fight. Nay, our most formi- 
dable antagonists (the Sikhs for example) 
appear always to enjoy a certain popularity 
among our countrymen, and men who 
themselves took part in the struggle with 
such chiefs as Te Raupara or Te Kooli 
often have a good word to say for their 
indomitable ioes. It is at least impossible 
to feel contempt, and difficult not to feel 
admiration, for men who held their own so 
long against us, when every material ad- 
vantage was on our side. Ten thousand 
British troops, supported by a large con- 
tingent of colonial volunteers besides 
friendly natives, and supplied with power- 
ful artillery and arms of precision, were 
opposed to a few hundred Maoris armed 
with fowling-pieces. Notwithstanding 
such great odds, the contest was bloody 
and protracted, owing to the combined 
courage and judgment with which our 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



133 



" savage " enemies availed themselves of 
the natural defences of their country, and 
to the skill displayed by them in military 
engineering. 

A Maori /a^ in peaceful times is simply 
an enclosure surrounded by a shallow 
ditch, in front of which is a light pali- 
sade interlaced with " supple-jack " vines. 
When prepared to stand a siege these 
lines of defence were strengthened, multi- 
plied, and flanked with rifle-pits. Shot and 
shell passed harmlessly through the tough 
elastic palisade without effecting a breach, 
and when troops were led to the assault 
they were shot down at close quarters by 
invisible enemies, sheltered in the ditch 
and firing through interstices in the pali- 
sade. If the outer line of defence became 
untenable, the defenders were able to take 
refuge behind a second enclosure, and 
open a murderous fire upon any assailants 
who might have penetrated within the 
first. At so short a range double-bar- 
relled smooth-bores, in the hands of cool, 
determined men, proved to be most effec- 
tive weapons, and the usual result of 
assaulting a pah was discomfiture with 
heavy loss. Sooner or later, from want of 
water or ammunition, the little fortress 
would be evacuated by the Maoris and 
occupied by our troops. When this oc- 
curred after the repulse from the gate pah, 
it was found that the enemy had suc- 
cored the British wounded and supplied 
them with water, an incident well attested, 
but certainly not characteristic of barbar- 
ous warfare. 

The Maori is in truth as near an ap- 
proach to the ideal of a " noble savage " 
as has ever existed in modern times, and 
is a worthy rival of the imaginary Dela- 
ware s of romance ; 

His valor, shown upon our crests. 
Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds, 
Even in the bosom of our adversaries. 

It would be easy to multiply authentic 
instances of daring and self-devotion on 
the part of the Maoris during the war, and 
diflScult to give any of treachery or coward- 
ice. Upon particular occasions they cer- 
tainly were guilty of slaying non-combat- 
ants; but such acts were in accordance 
with their own laws of warfare, and were 



not regarded by them as wanton cruelty, 
any more than the burning of a defence- 
less village, or the bombardment of a city 
crowded with women and children, might 
be so regarded by certain kinds of civil- 
ized commanders. Their worst enemies 
have not accused them of acting like the 
Turks in Bulgaria, or even the Versaillais 
in Paris ; and on the whole the Maoris 
can teach no less than they can learn as 
to chivalrous usages in war. 

The punctiliousness with which they 
give due notice of an intended outbreak 
or attack is almost Quixotic, and tends 
greatly to the comfort of those settlers who 
live on the borders of the " Kingite " terri- 
tory, a large tract extending from the west 
coast into the centre of the North Island. 
Here the natives still maintain their inde- 
pendence under a king of their own, and 
exclude the Pakehas rigorously, prohibit- 
ing the construction of roads or telegraphs. 
Human trespassers are warned off with 
polite firmness, cattle are driven back to 
their owners once or twice, and finally are 
confiscated. 

When I visited a friend settled upon the 
Upper Waikato, a somewhat uneasy feel- 
ing was prevalent throughout that border 
district, owing to the construction of a rail- 
road near the limits of the king's territory. 
This undertaking was regarded by the 
Kingites as a menace to their independ- 
ence, and not without reason ; for they have 
observed that as roads, railways, and tele- 
graphs advance, the Pakehas increase in 
numbers, while the Maoris diminish, and 
the land passes gradually out of the hands 
of its original possessors. It was appre- 
hended that despair at the prospect of this 
peaceful conquest of their country might 
cause an outbreak of the independent 
natives, and international relations were 
in a state of considerable tension in the 
spring (October) of 1874. My friend's 
house is on the very edge of the confisca- 
tion boundary ; and as the farthest outly- 
ing station in that direction was com- 
pletely exposed in case of an attack, I 
asked him, as we looked across. the rush- 
ing current of the Waikato into what 
might at any moment become a hostile 
country, whether he did not feel any 
uneasiness at the prospect 



134 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



His reply was, "None whatever as to 
my personal safety, for I shall be sure to 
receive two or three days' warning from 
the Maoris, if they mean to attack us. I 
only wish that I could feel equally easy 
about the safety of my farm." He knew 
the natives well, and doubtless his confi- 
dence in their chivalry was not misplaced, 
however strange it may appear to border 
men whose experience has been acquired 
in other lands. While wandering through 
the mterior of the North Island, I met not 
a few colonists who had associated much 
with the Maoris, who understood their 
language, and had many stories to tell 
of their generosity and their intelligence, 
above all of their courage. Such stories, 
when told on the very scene of the events, 
and among the actors themselves, may be 
relied upon as expressing the genuine be- 
lief and tradition of tne locality, even 
should there be inaccuracy or exaggera- 
tion as to details. 

It must be recollected that it is not 
a Maori, but a Pakeha, who tells the story 
of Orakau, where three hundred warriors 
displayed the spirit of Leonidas but expe- 
rienced better luck. They were sur- 
rounded by an overwhelming force of Brit- 
ish troops, and honorable terms of capitu- 
lation were offered, but the unanimous reply 
came back, " We will never surrender.'* 
A desperate sortie from the pah resulted, 
to the astonishment of all concerned, in 
the escape of most of the Maoris, after 
cutting their way through the hostile 
ranks. One warrior, who carried a child 
in a basket strapped to his forehead, was 
shot dead during the fight. A comrade 
stooped down, coolly unfastened the 
basket amid a shower of bullets, and car- 
ried off the child in safety, not without a 
cheer from some of the soldiers who wit- 
nessed the gallant deed. 

The same courage and skill which were 
so freely displayed against us during the 
Maori wars were also found among those 
natives who fought on our side, and the 
officers of the Maori contingent had good 
reason to be proud of their men. With- 
out them indeed peace would have been 
hard tO' establish, and a hearty union of all 
the native tribes might have taxed the re- 
sources of the British empire. Fortu- 
nately for us certain tribes have always 
been our zealous allies, and the colony 
still employs the services of a fine body, 
well armed and disciplined, and known as 
the native constabulary. An officer of 
this force described to me, with just pride, 
how his men, at the siege of a formidable 
pah, went to work with a couple of spades 



and a few pointed sticks, fairly sapping 
their way into the place, without any as- 
sistance from engineers or artillery. 

When the electric telegraph was in 
process of construction through the centre 
of the North Island, near Orakeikorako, 
the natives, who considered that the au- 
thorities had not kept faith with them, 
intimated that the telegraph could not be 
permitted to stand, and proceeded, after 
due notice, to cut down the posts. These 
were re-erected, and again cut down, after 
which an armed force was sent up to over- 
awe the natives. An eye-witness described 
to me the interview which took place be- 
tween the officer in command and the 
Maori envoy. On a very rainy day a 
naked warrior marched into the camp, and 
asked to see the officer commanding the 
troops. He was received with as great a 
display of force as possible, many " Queen- 
ite " natives being present ; but he was 
equal to the occasion, and, standing alone 
among angry foes, he had an apt reply for 
every one in turn. He told the Queenites 
that he could estimate the exact value of 
their attachment to the British queen : it 
was just equal to a salary of six shillings a 
day, the amount of pay which they were 
then receiving. To the officer, who as- 
serted that the authorities had always kept 
faith, he politely replied, that such no 
doubt was the experience of the rangatira 
(chief or gentleman) who had just spoken, 
but that his own experience had hitherto 
been very different. In conclusion, he 
said, " I and my people desire no quarrel 
with the government, but a certain pay- 
ment has been promised to us for the 
ground on which the telegraph stands, 
and we insist on that payment being made. 
If this is not done we will cut down^he 
telegraph posts, if we are attacked we will 
fight, and not a post shall be erected while 
one of us remains alive." They were 
paid. 

It is true that the colonial government, as 
a rule, has treated the Maoris with remark- 
able fairness and consideration, but much 
of this has been due to their being so well 
able to take their own part if treated other- 
wise. The elements still exist in the 
country for one more Maori war, but there 
is every reason now to hope that this will 
be altogether averted by a just and con- 
ciliatory policy on the part of the New 
Zealand government. 

The " Queenite " natives, so called as 
being loyal subjects of Queen Victoria, in 
contradistinction to the adherents of the 
Maori king, are steadily developing into 
useful citizens : they cultivate the soil, pay 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



135 



taxes, serve in the constabular}% and take 
their share in public affairs as electors 
and as representatives.* Many of those 
who are so peaceful and law-abiding fought 
desperately against our troops while the 
war lasted. A stout foe can be a firm 
friend, and a conspicuous example is the 

fallant chief Paurini of Tokanu. No 
faori enjoys more thoroughly the confi- 
dence and friendship of his white fellow- 
citizens, and no Maori can give a warmer 
welcome to a white stranger; but the 
stalwart figure, which his sole garment, a 
tartan kilt, exhibits to no small advantage, 
is literally riddled with the bullets of the 
Pakeha. 

As for the *^Kingites," it will not be 
possible for them within their limited ter- 
ritory to maintain much longer their pres- 
ent policy of isolation, and the only doubt 
is whether the collapse of the little in- 
dependent monarch will come about in 
a peaceable or a warlike manner. Two 
years ago there seemed to be a risk of war, 
but it has not yet broken out, and the mere 
lapse of time is in every way favorable to 
peace. When in the neighborhood I was 
very anxious to avail myself of a missive 
for a Kingite chief, in order to reach, if 
possible, Tokangamutu, the capital village 
of the Maori king. After consulting a 
number of friends who were well informed 
upon the question, and one of whom had 
married the daughter of a great Maori 
chief, I resolved to abandon the attempt, 
as they all agreed in dissuading me, al- 
though each adviser gave different reasons 
for his advice. Most of them considered 
that the risk of personal violence was 
small, except perhaps from the Hau-hau 
fanatics, the rise of which sect has intro- 
duced a new element into Maori affairs. 
Formerly, an unarmed stranger, trusting 
to Maori honor, was perfectly safe in any 
part of the country, but now there are in- 
dividuals who beheve that in slaying any 
Pakeha they would be doing a pious deea. 
All were at one in saying that if I went 
at all I must not carry arms of any sort. 
The most serious objections urged were 
to this effect : — 

Your visit, as the bearer of a letter from an 
ex-governor, will have an apparent political 
significance altogether foreign to its real ob- 
ject, and may produce complications. Sir 
George Grey*s introduction will of course 
secure the good-will of the chief to whom it is 
addressed, and even of the authorities gen- 
erally; but the railroad works are approach- 

* There are now two Maoris in the Legislative Conn- 
cUt and four in the House ol Representativea. 



ing the boundary, and matters are in a critical 
condition, while a number of persons in the 
king's country, including certain mean whites, 
are interested in getting up a disturbance. In 
particular the refugees from the Maori terri- 
tory lately confiscated entertain the wild hope 
that in a general scrimmage they may regain 
their land, and feel that now or never is their 
chance. The king and his advisers probably 
do not share these feelings, but a European of 
any consequence runs the risk of being made 
the victim in some mode or other of these 
Adullamites, in order that the Kingites may 
be embroiled with the Pakehas. Under these 
circumstances, the better your introduction, 
the greater will be the risk. 

The chance of seeing the last scene of 
independent Maori life was a great temp- 
tation, but these considerations satisfied 
me that I should exercise a wise discretion 
in letting the Kingites alone. Matters at 
Tokangamutu have undergone no very 
material change during the short interval 
which has elapsed since I left New Zea- 
land, but peace has been hitherto main- 
tained, and its future maintenance depends 
upon the action of the colonial govern- 
ment. The Maoris are able to realize 
more fully from day to day the utterly 
hopeless character of an armed struggle, 
and will hardly provoke one unless goaded 
on by a sense oi oppression and injustice. 
On the other hand, an aggressive policy 
finds little favor now with the colonists, 
who no longer have the imperial excheq- 
uer available for war expenses, and must 
in future bear all such burdens upon their 
own shoulders. There has, in fact, been 
no serious Maori difficulty since the impe- 
rial troops were withdrawn from the col- 
ony. 

It may be fairly assumed that the colo- 
nists will continue to act towards the Ma- 
oris with justice and moderation, as they 
have usually done hitherto ; but even with 
the best intentions it is often impossible to< 
avoid arousing a genuine sense of wrong, 
owing to the radical differences of law and 
custom between the two races, especially 
with regard to land. When a transfer of 
land from a native to a white man takes 
place, it is usually quite fair and straight- 
forward according to European notions, 
whether by sale, by gift, or by confiscation 
after war. The settler performs what he 
believes to be all the necessary legal for- 
malities, and pays the purchase money 
agreed upon, but finds his possession of 
the land disputed, perhaps by an individ- 
ual, perhaps by a whole tribe. The valid- 
ity of the transaction is frequently denied 
upon the ground that the seller had no 
right to sell, and that tribal rights havei 



136 

been ignored. According to Maori usage 
the objections may be quite bonA fide^ and 
would probably receive effect from colonial 
judges if ureed at the proper time and 
place. But the natives are unwilling to ad- 
mit the jurisdiction of the colonial courts 
in such cases, and refuse to plead in them, 
regarding the entire legal procedure as an 
organization to defraud them of their land. 
Thus the tenure of land is here, as else- 
where, the fruitful source of discord be- 
tween invaders and invaded, even when 
the former are desirous of acting justly 
according to their own ideas of justice. 
Meanwhile the Maoris see only too clearly 
that the land is passing out of their hands, 
atid they are daily becoming fewer and 
feebler as their white rivals increase in 
numbers, in riches, and in power. The 
majority accept this state of matters as 
inevitable, and try to make the best of it, 
having actually in some places settled 
down into the position as landlords, liv- 
ing upon the rents paid to them by their 
white tenants. Within the Kingite limits, 
however, there are still many intractable 
spirits, not the least generous and patriotic 
of their nation, who **long but for one 
battle more, the stain of tneir shame to 
efface." 

Religious fanaticism stimulates this hos- 
tile spirit, and if there ever again are seri- 
ous troubles with the natives in New Zea- 
land, we shall hear more of the ** Hau- 
haus," who have lapsed from Christianity 
back to their original heathenism, upon 
wliich they have engrafted some of the 
d:irker rites and tenets to be found in the 
pa^^es of the Old Testament. 

How far the missionaries have made any 
deep or lasting impression upon the life 
and character of the Polynesians, whom 
they so rapidly persuaded to accept the 
forms of Christianity, is a point very diffi- 
cult to decide. A strong reaction from 
their influence and teaching has undoubt- 
edly taken place in many parts of New 
Zealand, where deserted mission stations 
are pointed out embowered amid choice 
fruit-trees, in situations the amenity of 
which does the highest credit to the taste 
of the reverend founders. In a remote 
village of the interior there lies on the 
ground a very large bell, too heavy to be 
swung in any building of native construc- 
tion. It is the only visible token of Chris- 
tianity, and bears a Maori inscription to the 
effect that it is a gift, bestowed in 1853 
upon the believers of Tokanu by " certain 
good women of Kotirana," the nearest ap- 
proach to the name of Scotland which the 
Maori alphabet permits. A good woman 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



of the locality, on our asking what it all 
meant, replied with a lau^h and the Maori 
equivalent for ** soft sawder." The hand- 
some gift is evidently not looked upon with 
the respect due to its intrinsic value, to the 
motives which actuated tiie donors, and to 
the difficulties overcome in conveying it 
into the heart of a country at that time 
entirely devoid of roads. During the 
twenty years that have elapsed since this 
great bell was rolled in a barrel over the 
fern-clad hills around Lake Taupo, many 
converts have either joined the Hau-haus 
or lapsed into utter indifference, and are 
pagans so far as any religious faith is con- 
cerned. But not the less on that account 
have the Christian missionaries deserved 
well of the natives. Throughout Polynesia 
it is entirely due to them that the natives are 
an educated people in the strictest sense 
of the word, for it is difficult to find any- 
where within reach of mission influence a 
Polynesian, old or young, who cannot read 
and write. 

The missionaries began by creating a 
written language, simple as to orthogra- 
phy, and invariable as to pronunciation. 
Having reduced to writing dialects which 
existed formerly as mere sounds; they ere 
long succeeded in converting warlike and 
indolent savages into lettered scholars, 
although many of their pupils had already 
attained a mature age. An achievement 
such as this reflects credit upon teachers 
and pupils alike. 

It must be admitted that the mission- 
aries have been too severe in their con- 
demnation of native customs and amuse- 
ments, and have thereby overstrained 
their influence. The burdens laid upon 
recent converts have been too heavy for 
them to bear, and a certain amount of 
reaction has necessarily followed. The 
haka and the hula-hula are not, per- 
haps, the most elegant or decorous of 
dances, but it would have been wiser to 
reform than to prohibit, although some 
Christian denominations can fairly boast 
of their consistent opposition to dancing 
of any sort, and may assert with some 
show of reason that waltzes and reels are 
not greatly superior in decorum to the 
native dances of Polynesia. The joyous 
nature of the islanders is not easily sup- 
pressed, and they are more likely to be- 
come hypocrites than ascetics; but the 
outburst in New Zealand of the Pai Marire 
or Hau-hau religion, a few years ago, 
proved that the stern theology of the Old 
Testament is not without attraction for 
the fiercer spirits among them. In Ha- 
waii the awe entertained by the natives^ 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



'37 



for the missionaries is enhanced by their 
influence with the government, which has 
always been considerable. Even the pres- 
ence of a man-of-war " Pelekani " (BritishX 
and the popularity of the officers, will not 
avail to produce a hula-hula on Sunday in 
a Hawaiian village. The answer to' all 
persuasions is, " The missionaries and the 
police" — the latter being in this merely 
the agents of the former. Where mission- 
aries have the ear of the authorities, as 
in Polynesia, they need not expect to be 
regarded as "protectors of the poor," a 
title freely conceded to them in India, 
where many of the unconverted natives 
regard them as their best friends, able 
and willing to plead their cause even in 
disputes with government officials. A dis- 
tinct antagonism usually exists throughout 
Polynesia between the missionary and the 
casual white settler, and the opinions of a 
stranger are apt to be colored according 
to the class among which he happens to 
be thrown. Speaking for myself, the good 
work of education appears to cover the 
other failures of the missionaries, and to 
compensate amply the islanders for all 
that they have given up, whether in land, 
in pecuniary contributions, or in amuse- 
ment. Partly owing to a diminished pop- 
ulation, partly also to diminished religious 
zeal, church accommodation is now in 
excess of the requirements of the natives, 
more especially in Hawaii, and the staring 
white buildings which stud the coast are 
often little used except as landmarks for 
vessels at sea. 

In attempting to account for the depop- 
ulation of Polynesia, various causes are 
assignee) by those who have considered 
the question: intemperance, immorality, 
infantile epidemics, and pulmonary dis- 
eases. Some persons lay stress upon one 
evil, some upon another, the most careful 
observers being the least ready with an 
answer. Some suggestions seem fanciful 
enoush : the women ride too much upon 
horseback ; wearing clothes produces sus- 
ceptibility to sudden chills ; and the peace- 
able habits of modern times cause more 
accessible but less healthy localities to be 
inhabited. Although these may all be true 
causes of diminished population, all com- 
bined appear inadequate to account for 
the result. Disease and intemperance of 
all sorts, combined with bad ventilation, 
insufficient food, and a severe climate, do 
not prevent the population of our lar^e 
cities from increasing. Why, then, should 
the Polynesians succumo, whose cli- 
mate is equable, whose food is abun- 
dant, and who breathe the fresh breezes 



from mountain and sea? They are not 
dispossessed of their lands or driven from 
their hunting-grounds, like the Red In- 
dians and Australian Blacks. They own 
large tracts of fertile soil, and foreigners 
are eager to pay good waees to those who 
will work, scarcity of labor being the 
main difficulty of sugir-cultivation in the 
Sandwich Islands. The marked deficien- 
cy of women among the Polynesians does 
not seem to be due to female infanticide, 
and is of course unfavorable to popula- 
tion; but they are by no means sterile, 
and pretty little brown children usuillv 
swarm around the native dwellings, which 
occur at distant intervals on the coast, or 
in the interior. Why, then, is it that many 
of these dweUings have been deserted, and 
that luxuriant plantations of cocoa-nut 
palms, and bread-fruit trees, remain neg- 
lected? The means of subsistence are 
there, but those who should have gath- 
ered them have vanished. The climate 
and products are those of Ceylon, but 
where are the irrigated rice-terraces, and 
populous villages hidden in a jungle of 
fruit-bearing trees? One is reminded 
rather of the barren glens of Sutheriand, 
where bright green patches on the brown 
hillsides mark the site of what are still 
called " towns." 

Thus much is clear, however, that " civ- 
ilization " has introduced in Polynesia 
causes of destruction more than counter- 
balancing the advantages of education 
and good government so far as the na- 
tives are concerned. They are unable, even 
under the most favorable conditions, to 
resist evils which hardly affect the vitality 
and fecundity of the Indo-European or 
Mongolian, and those vices and diseases 
which merely scourge the individual of 
the stronger race annihilate the less pro- 
lific breed. 

When they are all gone there will be 
additional space in the world for a few 
Caucasians and a good many Mongolians, 
of whom there seem to be quite enough 
already, and no doubt the negro also 
would flourish and multiply in the tropical 
islands. On the whole, humanity will not 
profit greatly by the change. In frugality 
and industry the Kanaka is far inferior to 
the Chinaman, but not to the negro ; while 
courtesy, courage, docility, and generosity 
are not such common qualities that we can 
witness without regret the extinction of 
the Polynesians, who exhibit them in so 
marked a degree. Depopulation is not 
limited to Polynesia proper, but goes on 
all over the Southern Hemisphere as rap- 
idly as in the kingdom of Hawaii, the only 



138 

important insular jE^roup lying north of the 
equator in the Pacific Ocean. In the 
Fijis, since their annexation, the mortality 
has been appalling, but these islands are 
inhabited by Melanesians, a black race 
very different to the brown Kanakas. 
The Tasmanian "black-fellow" is gone 
already, and his Australian brother is rap- 
idly following him. We may pity even 
such irreclaimable savages as these are, 
and regret the mode of their extermination, 
but we must admit that for them there is 
no room within the pale of a truly civilized 
community, and that they are interesting 
only as etnnological curiosities, exhibiting 
in recent times a very early stage of hu- 
man development. It will not take long 
to write their epitaph, although in their 
keen love of sport and their invincible 
dislike of steady work they bear a certain 
resemblance to some of tne most exalted 
and highly favored classes of mankind. 

With the polished Hawaiian and the 
chivalrous Maori it is difiFerent, and the 
loss caused to humanity by their disap- 
pearance is real. Of course they are not 
without failings, and contact with unworthy 
Europeans has not tended to diminish 
some of these, but they have learnt, on 
the other hand, from oiir people good les- 
sons of industry and thrift. Naturally 
they have so little notion of saving as to 
give away, or even destroy, their surplus 
with reckless extravagance ; but now a 
Maori capitalist is by no means unknown, 
and I have seen in the interior of Hawkes 
Bay and Wellington provinces Maori 
farms which would do credit to any white 
settler. Occasionally, however, the orig- 
inal nature asserts itself, and at one of 
these very farms the native agriculturist 
deliberately burnt the whole of his straw 
because he experienced some trouble in 
obtaining what he considered to be its 
proper price. Another distinguished chief 
had some turkeys to dispose of, and as 
the first person to whom they were oflEered 
for sale objected to the exorbitant sum 
asked, he gave them all away to a Pakeha 
friend. When the Polynesian is accused 
of being idle and thriftless, of having very 
lax notions as to female virtue, and a weak- 
ness for intoxicating liquors, the case 
against him has been pretty nearly summed 
up, and it can only be added that his fail- 
ings arc injurious to himself rather than 
to others. That those who can speak the 
language of Maoris or Kanakas, and who 
are in constant association with them, 
either officially or socially, like them well 
enough to tell many stories in their favor 
and few to their aiscredit, is a fact with 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



which a passing traveller can hardly fail to 
be impressed, and my own experience, as 
far as it went, confirmed the favorable 
views of those better qualified to speak 
upon the subject. 

A ride of a few da5rs through a district 
so little frequented by Europeans that we 
only met one white man — a trooper of 
the armed constabulary — afforded an 
opportunity of realizing the kindly dispo- 
sition and honesty of the more unsophisti- 
cated among the New Zealanders. They 
could not do much for us certainly, and 
one chief apologized for apparent remiss- 
ness by asking, " How can I show you 
kindness when I have only potatoes and 
cabbage?" They did what they could, 
however, with a friendly politeness which 
was very gratifying. On one occasion I 
arrived with my guide at a Hau-hau village 
after dark, ana found it deserted for the 
time being by all its inhabitants, except 
one very aged crone too feeble to travel. 
Following the custom in such cases we 
selected the most comfortable whari^ and 
made ourselves at home. This whari 
was a hut built of reeds, fern-stalks, and 
native flax, closely interwoven and per- 
fectly weather-tight Clean mats were the 
only furniture, but so great was the confi- 
dence reposed by the owner in his coun- 
trymen and visitors, that he had left in 
this open hut his most precious possession 
— a pair of double-barrelled guns, which 
had probably in their day done service 
against the British troops. It is illegal to 
sell firearms to the natives of New Zea- 
land, and even a revolver and a few car- 
tridges cannot be landed without purchas- 
ing a permit to introduce " arms, ammuni- 
tion, and warlike stores," so that these 
two old fowling-pieces were of priceless 
value to the owner ; yet he evidently en- 
tertained no fears for their safety. They 
were tapu (sacred), no doubt, to all good 
Hau-haus, and our absent host was jus- 
tified in his apparent carelessness. We 
could make him no return for his hospi- 
tality, beyond fetching water for the poor 
old lady and giving her a few of our pro- 
visions. My guide was well known and 
popular with the natives, which ensured 
us a welcome anywhere ; but an unlucky 
white pedestrian who preceded us paid the 
penalty of the misconduct of others. Ar- 
riving at a small village, weary and foot- 
sore, he asked for shelter ; but the men 
were absent, and the women did not like 
his looks, so one of them advised him to 
push on a mile or two for an imaginary 
settlement. There are no habitations for 
the next twenty-five miles, and as my ex- 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



139 



perienced guide lost his way upon the 
trackless plain, there was some reason to 
apprehend that the poor "sun-downer" 
never succeeded in making his way across. 
If he really did come to an untimely end, 
his was a hard case ; but the behavior of 
mean whites under similar circumstances 
was the cause, if not the excuse, for the 
falsehood told by the unprotected wahine 
(woman) of Tirau. She evidently felt com- 
punction in confessing to us this breach of 
hospitality, in order that we might look 
out for him, and the incident appeared to 
me at least as unfavorable to the charac- 
ter of white men in general as to that of 
this native woman in particular. Had the 
rangatira been at home nothing of the 
sort would have occurred. 

In Polynesia, as is usually the case 
where women are in a minority, they are 
treated with some consideration, and take 
part in nearly all amusements and occupa- 
tions along with uien. They are very fond 
of riding, many Maori ladies using side- 
saddles and riding-habits, while those of 
Hawaii invariably ride d la Duchesse de 
Berri on Spanish saddles ; and most pic- 
turesque objects they are on horseback, in 
their brilliant flowing robes, adorned with 
coronets and garlands of flowers. Tattoo- 
ing is no longer in fashion with the youths 
and maidens ; but in New Zealand the 
senior chiefs are decorated with most elab- 
orate patterns of spirals and volutes, and 
the elder women have their lips and chins 
tattooed like the Maronites of the Leba- 
non. As usual among uncivilized races, 
the women are not so good-looking as the 
men, and in New Zealand they do not 
scorn a short clay pipe, even when dressed 
in complete European fashion — a prac- 
tice not calculated to improve their appear- 
ance. A good many white men have mar- 
ried Maori wives, and are known as 
•* Pakeha-Maoris ; " the half-breeds appear 
to be a fine, vigorous race. 

There is an analogy between our pres- 
ent position in the North Island and that 
of the French in Algeria; the law is 
obeyed by all, roads and bridges are con- 
structed, and an unarmed traveller can 
pass safely through the interior. The 
natives are treated with respect and con- 
sideration, which they have earned by 
their courage and good faith. No one 
affects to despise the Maoris any more 
than the Kabyles, and they enjoy, when- 
ever they choose to claim it, complete 
social equality in hotels, public convey- 
ances, and places of resort. At the same 
time there is, in certain districts of the 
island, a feeling of insecurity among the 



colonists similar to that which pervades 
Algeria, where religious fanaticism and 
love of independence may slumber indeed, 
but are by no means dead in the hearts of 
the indigenes. 

The social position accorded to the 
Maoris by the whites is altogether differ- 
ent from that of any other dark-skinned 
race throughout the British dominions, but 
is completely justified by the readiness 
and ease with which they adapt themselves 
to the manners of good society. " Js that 
person a gentleman ? Has he never dined 
with the governor before ? " was the in- 
quiry of a chief who was for the first time 
a guest at Government House, and ob- 
served that one of his Pakeha compan- 
ions, unlike himself, was ill at ease and 
puzzled how to behave. A Maori member 
of the Legislative Council, being asked 
whether he had had a pleasant dinner- 
party, is said to have replied, "On, yes, 
very much so. We were all gentlemen ; 
no Lower House members present." This 
story, however, has somewUat the appear- 
ance of having been made up at tlie ex- 
pense of the popular branch of the legis- 
lature. 

At the opening of the Hawaiian Parlia- 
ment in 1850, the king, in his address to 
the " nobles and representatives * ot the 
people, assured them that the policy of 
the government was " essentially protec- 
tive to the Hawaiian or native race, to the 
intent that the question of their capability 
of civilization may be fully solved." For 
a quarter of a century the attempt to carry 
out such a policy has been honestly made, 
under singularly favorable conditions and 
with very encouraging results, were it not 
for the well-grounded apprehension that 
the Hawaiian race, as it becomes civilized, 
is doomed to become extinct. No one 
who has passed any time among these 
happy lotos-eaters can contemplate without 
sincere regret this consummation of so 
promising a political experiment. The sta- 
tistics are, however, only too conclusive ; 
and, as in the case of the Maoris, the 
diminution in numbers is so steady, that 
a limit at no remote date may be calculat- 
ed beyond which the Hawaiian race will 
not survive. Without taking into account 
the large estimate of the population given 
by Captain Cook, we find that the band- 
wich Islands, in 1823, contained one hun- 
dred and forty-two thousand inhabitants, 
and in 1853 only one hundred and thirty 
thousand ; four years later they were re- 
duced to one hundred and eight thou- 
sand iis^ hundred, and in 1849 ^^ eighty 



140 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



thousnnd six hundred, their annnal death- 
rate being then about eight per cent In 
1866 the native population was fifty-eight 
thousand seven hundred and sixty-five, and 
in 1872 (the date of the last census) fifty- 
one thousand five hundred and thirty-one, 
including half-castes. The excess of 
males over females was then no less than 
three-thousand two hundred and sixteen, 
and the annual decrease was estimated 
to be from one thousand two hundred to 
two thousand. There was at the same 
time a small annual increase in the num- 
ber of half-castes, as well as in that of the 
whites and Chinese. 

The cause of this depopulation is cer- 
tainly not political misgovernment. The 
independence of Hawaii has been recog- 
nized by all the great maritime nations, 
and the form of government is a constitu- 
tional monarchy. The legislature is com- 
posed of twenty chiefs or nobles nominat- 
ed by the crown, and a number (not ex- 
ceeding forty) of representatives elected 
biennially. There is a considerable prop- 
erty qualification for representatives, and 
a smaller one for electors. The legisla- 
tors are paid, and all sit and vote in one 
assembly. The king himself is of the 
ancient royal race, but his cabinet (com- 
ix)sed of three ministers besides the attor- 
ney-general) contains no Hawaiian except 
the minister of the interior. The leading 
foreign merchants, one of whom has mar- 
ried the king's sister, are members of the 
privy council, and a preponderating influ- 
ence is exercised by the enlightenea white 
community cf Honolulu. The theoretical 
excellence of this constitution has not been 
belied by its practical working. Govern- 
ment schools have been everywhere estab- 
lished, eighty-seven per cent, of the chil- 
dren of school age are actually receiving 
instruction, and a Hawaiian unable to read 
and write is rarely to be found. The sale 
of intoxicating liquors to natives is forbid- 
den by law, and the legal penalties are 
strictly enforced. Indeed, so energetic 
and efficient are the magistrates, both 
native and foreign, that the number of 
criminal convictions assumes an alarming 
magnitude for a small community ; but it is 
reassuring to find that some of the offences 
are not very heinous in their nature. In 
two years there were no less than sixty- 
one convictions for violating the Sabbath. 

The political hardships of the Hawai- 
lans, in fact, consist merely in being too 
much governed. Life and property are 
secure ; the laws are just, and are well 
administered ; the quantity^ not the qual- 
ity^ of the government is in fault. The 



political machinery, with king, privy coun- 
cil, governors, judges, salariea mmisters 
and legislators, is ludicrously in excess of 
the requirements of the dwindling popula- 
tion — less than sixty thousand, including 
all the foreigners. 

The military outlay, indeed, is not great, 
except upon music and upon gunpowder 
for salutes. The last item consumes a 
most undue proportion of the national re- 
sources, as the principal foreign powers 
are represented by commissioners as well 
as by consuls, and the tariff of guns allotted 
to each is two in excess of what is cus- 
tomary elsewhere. Men-of-war of various 
nations, British and American in particu- 
lar, are constantly visiting Honolulu ; and 
the islanders flatter themselves that the 
United Kingdom and the United States 
are alike prepared to use any amount of 
force or fraud in order to effect annexa- 
tion. Thfe various commissioners, on their 
side, watch one another with as much jeal- 
ous distrust as do the ambassadors to the 
Sublime Porte ; each regards the success 
of his policy as essential to the welfare of 
his own country as well as that of Hawaii. 

At present no pretext could easily be 
found for foreign interference in the af- 
fairs of such a peaceable and well-conduct- 
ed state, and Hawaii may hope for a sea- 
son to enjoy the political independence 
which she owes partly to her geographical 
isolation, planted as she is far from any 
other land in the centre of the vast Pacific. 

But what will be the fate of the Sand- 
wich Islands when there are no more 
Hawaiians ? Among foreign elements the 
American preponderates, especially as 
regards commercial interchanges, and 
these islands naturally gravitate towards 
the United States ; but, oddly enough, that 
great maritime nation appears to despise 
insular possessions, even when, like St. 
Thomas, they constitute important mer- 
cantile entrep6ts. On the other hand, 
Great Britain, the universal annexer of 
islands, has once already relinquished 
possession of the Sandwich group, where 
the French and the Russian colors have 
also been hoisted, only to be again hauled 
down. It seems, therefore, as if this little 
archipelago were destined to remain unan- 
nexed ; and when the present royal race 
can no longer furnish it with a king, it may 
imitate its American neighbors and pro- 
claim the republic. 

A prosperous future is before it, situated 
in mid-ocean between America, Asia, and 
Australasia, with a productive soil, and an 
equable climate which would be perfection 
did it not render all exertion alike super- 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



141 



Huous and distasteful. At Honolulu, in 
21^ 1 8m. north latitude and 158® west 
longitude, the barometer has been ob- 
served to vary during the year only from 
30*24 inches to 2970, while the range of 
the thermometer at the same time was 
between 86** and '62**, with a mean tem- 
perature of 75**. This agreeable but ener- 
vating climate prevails only at the sea- 
level ; at a greater elevation a temperate 
region is found, and in the island of Ha- 
waii the mountain summits, rising to more 
than thirteen thousand feet, are frequently 
capped with snow. The windwarci coast 
of Hawaii, ever verdant and well-watered, 
thanks to the north-east trades, is admi- 
rably described by the poet-laureate as 
the land of the lotus-eaters : — 

A land of streams ! some, like, a downward 

smoke. 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows 

broke, 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. • . . 

Far off, three mountain-tops, 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
Stood sunset-flushed : and dewed with showery 

drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy palm above the woven 

copse. 

There is nothing melancholy about these 
mild-eyed lotus-eaters, except the knowl- 
edge that they will have no share in the 
future prosperity, which white capital and 
Chinese labor seem likely to produce in 
the Sandwich Islands. During the last 

?uarter of a century, while these " Happv 
sles " have enjoyed such political as well 
as natural advantages that the population 
ought to have doubled itself, it has dimin- 
ished by nearly one-third. The Hawaiians 
have proved in a most remarkable instance 
their appreciation of a sanitary policy, 
which places the welfare of the community 
above the prejudices and even the affec- 
tions of the individual. A considerable 
and apparently increasing proportion of 
the Hawaiians is afflicted with the terrible 
disease known as leprosy, which has defied 
all available medical science, and is re- 
garded as absolutely incurable. How far 
it is contagious in the ordinary sense ap- 
pears to be doubtful, for the natives have 
habitually neglected all precautions in 
associatinjr with lepers, and yet the disease 
is not known to have affected above two 
per cent, of the population. On the other 
hand, it is clearly liable to be transmitted 
from parent to offspring, and is regarded 
as infectious by competent authorities. 
To prevent all risk of infection, and to 
stamp out the hereditary taint, which 



threatened to spread through the whole 
community, the Hawaiian legislature about 
ten years ago took up the question in a 
spirit at once patriotic and scientific. 
Under the auspices of a board of health 
a leper settlement was established in a 
secluded valley on the small island of 
Molokai, to which all persons known to be 
affected with leprosy were transported by 
officials appointed for the purpose. Con- 
siderable difficulty was experienced at first 
in discovering the unfortunate creatures, 
who were concealed by their friends, and 
a more painful duty could hardly be im- 
posed upon a kindly Kanaka than to sur- 
render a companion to pass the remainder 
of his days a hopeless exile in a lazza- 
retto. But the sternness of the law did 
not prevent the Hawaiians from realizing 
its expediency, and the necessity for its 
strict enforcement in the interest of the 
public. Examples of self-devotion were 
not wanting on the part of persons whose 
external symptoms of leprosy were so 
slight as to escape detection, but who sur- 
rendered themselves spontaneously in 
obedience to the law. Nothing can well 
be more touching than the story told by 
Miss Bird, in her book on the Hawaiian 
Archipelago, of poor "Bill Ragsdale," 
whose generous self-immolation savors 
rather of the antioue Roman than of the 
Kanaka. This talented half-white, who 
had filled among other honorable offices 
that of interpreter to the Hawaiian legis- 
lature, avowed himself to be a leper be- 
fore any visible symptom betrayed him, 
and passed amid universal lamentation 
from the joyous society of Hilo to a living 
death at Kalawao. In that dismal valley 
of Molokai he is now a ruler, by virtue of 
his abilities ; but perhaps since the 
Odyssev wag composed the well-known 
words have never been so applicable to 
any living mortal : — 

BovTjolfirjv It* hrapovpog idv dTjrevifiEv uXXu, 
*Avdpt nap* iuc^pif), 6 fif^ 0ioTog iroh>c drf, 
"H TTuaiv vtKveaoi KarcupOtftevoiaiv uvuaaeiv. 

Certainly the hardest life that a slave 
can lead elsewhere seems preferable to 
that of Governor Ragsdale, who now rules 
with beneficent and almost absolute au- 
thority over seven hundred lepers in every 
stage of a lingering but fatal disease. The 
last effort of his eloquence, when bidding 
farewell to his weeping friends, was to 
urge submission to the stringent measures 
taken by the government for the purpose 
of stamping out leprosy. The law for the 
seclusion of lepers has been enforced 
without distinction of rank or nationality. 



142 



MAORIS AND KANAKAS. 



and in the course of eight years more than 
eleven hundred persons have been trans- 
ported to Molokai ; of these a large pro- 
portion died within a short time of their 
arrival, but in 1874 there remained alive 
more than seven hundred. Although all 
hope must be abandoned by those who 
enter Kalawao, the natural cheerfulness 
of the Kanakas seems not to desert them 
even there, and a visit from the king and 
queen caused no little rejoicing among the 
lepers. The support of these unfortunate 
exiles entails a heavy burden on a small 
community like Hawaii, with a diminishing 
revenue and an increasing expenditure. 
The burden, however, will soon be re- 
moved by the hand of death, and no item 
in an annual outlay of some six hundred 
thousand dollars is less worthy of being 
expunged than the cost of the leper set- 
tlement. The courage and liberality dis- 
played in grappling with this national 
curse are worthy of the emulation of ad- 
vanced European governments. 

In explanation of the disinclination to 
steady labor which characterizes the Poly- 
nesian, and distinguishes him in so marked 
a manner from the Chinese, it must be 
borne in mind that the islands of the 
Pacific are very much under-peopled, and 
that almost all of them lie between the 
tropics, and enjoy a climate in which exist- 
ence is happiness and exertion is pain. 
As for the natives of New Zealand, whose 
climate may be compared to that of Italy, 
they are indeed more energetic and war- 
like than the gentle Kanakas of the tropi- 
cal islands, but their close resemblance in 
character, appearance, and language indi- 
cates a very recent separation from their 
northern cousins. The Maoris themselves 
affirm that their original home was a 
country named Hawaiiki In the far north, 
and at Roto Iti is still exhibited an elabo- 
rately carved canoe with fifteen benches, 
in wnich the ancestors of the Arawa tribe 
are said to have crossed the ocean. " Te 
Arawa " is the largest native craft which I 
saw in New Zealand, and it is about as 
seaworthy as a university eight-oar. On 
board European vessels the Maoris prove 
themselves to be bold and skilful seamen, 
but in naval architecture they are inferior 
even to the black islanders of Melanesia. 
The seas around New Zealand are swept 
by gales very different from the soft trade- 
winds of the tropical Pacific, and the trans- 
port of provisions and water sufficient 
for a long voyage in a canoe across 
these seas seems to be an impossibility. 
On the map the islands of Polynesia ap- 



pear to be thickly sprinkled, but in reality 
they are so few and so small, as to occupy 
a space almost inappreciable upon the 
immense expanse of water. Most of them 
are coral islets, which are raised so little 
above the sea-surface as to be invisible at 
a short distance. Diiring a voyage of 
three weeks through the heart of the 
galaxy we only sighted two coral islets, 
and a lofty volcanic island in the Naviga- 
tors group. It may be said that the Pacific 
is an area of subsidence, and at a period 
geologically recent the land surface must 
have been very much larger than it now 
is, but all evidence seems to indicate that 
the Maoris have colonized New Zealand 
at a period which is recent in a very differ- 
ent sense of the word. Eminent natural- 
ists are even of opinion that the moa, a 
bird whose feathers are still found in per- 
fect preservation, and whose remains are 
imbedded in the newest alluvial deposits, 
was extinct before the arrival of the Mao- 
ris. They hardly succeed in explaining, 
however, what agency, except that of 
man, could have destroyed a creature so 
powerful and so abundant, in a country 
without beasts of prey, and where no im- 
portant geological change has occurred 
since the time when it flourished. 

How and when the Maoris reached New 
Zealand will in all probability never be 
accurately determined, but their tropical 
origin is clear enough. They have never 
really peopled the South (or Middle) Is- 
land, the largest and most productive of 
the group, but have lingered in the balmy 
climate of the North, and have planteci 
many of their most important settlements 
around the numerous hot springs of the 
volcanic districts. Thanks to these natural 
supplies of heat, they can dispense almost 
entirely with fuel, and in some villages the 
inhabitants, like those of a fashionable spa, 
spend a considerable portion of the twenty- 
four hours in bathing. From long habit 
they enjoy a temperature which would al- 
most scald a European, and will tumble 
heels over head into natural cauldrons 
apparently at the boiling point, and into 
which I could not bear to dip my hand. 
At sunset, the whole population of a vil- 
lage, men, women, and children, may be 
seen disporting themselves in the tepid 
depths, or seated, with the water up to 
their necks, on the smooth enamelled 
sides of these natural thermae. Infants 
in arms bathe along with the rest, learning 
to swim before they are able to walk, ana 
perched on the shoulders of their tattooed 
grandfathers they regard with astonished 
black eyes the bleached Pakeha, whose 



PAULINE. 



43 



bloodless appearance contrasts most un- 
favorably with the wholesome brown of 
the Maori. Laughing, talking, flounder- 
ing, and splashing, the natives do not for- 
get their good manners, and are as polite 
m the water as thev are upon land, treat- 
ing a stranger with marked considera- 
tion. It is needless to say that they are 
perfect swimmers, the women no less than 
the men ; in the popular Maori legend it 
is Hero, not Leander, who performs the 
feat of swimming over to the island of 
Mokoia. In a country of lakes and rivers, 
where the only canoes are long cranky 
** dug-outs," fashioned of a wood almost 
equal in specific gravity to water, and pro- 
pelled with short, feeble paddles, it is 
necessary to be a good swimmer. When 
two or three miles from the shore, with a 
stifiE head breeze rendering it necessary 
that half the crew should use their paddles 
for baling, you know that your native com- 
panions, encumbered only with a light kilt, 
will probably reach the land in safety if 
the canoe is swamped or upset. This 
knowledge, however, affords only a modi- 
fied decree of comfort to a Pakeha, clad 
probably in waterproof and riding-boots, 
and rouses his wrath against the conserva- 
tism displayed bv the Maoris in boat- 
building. Occasionally fatal accidents 
occur even to the natives, and not long ago 
two canoes full of people were swamped 
in Lake Rotorua : two women only were 
saved, the men behaving with great self- 
devotion in endeavoring to assist the 
weaker and more helpless. 

Even now, when steamers ply regularly 
between Auckland and Honolulu, there is 
little or no Jntercourse between the Poly- 
nesians of the southern temperate and the 
northern tropical latitudes ; and it is aston- 
ishing, after passing over so many thou- 
sand miles of sea, to find one's self among 
people who in features and complexion, 
in frank and courteous bearing, and even 
in such small details as their mode of deco- 
ration with flowers or feathers, seem to be 
identical with those that one has quitted. 
It is, however, in language that the sub- 
stantial identity shows itself most dis- 
tinctly, as after allowing for certain differ- 
ences of pronunciation it will be found 
that almost all the words in common use 
are the same in the Maori and Kanaka 
dialects. These are precisely the words 
which could not have been recently bor- 
rowed by one dialect from the other ; and 
as neither possessed until quite recently 
any literature, or even an alphabet, it is 
remarkable that so very little divergence 
should have taken place. 



Great as are the charms of scenery and 
climate — 

Where the golden Pacific round islands of 
paradise rolls — 

the chief interest and romance of these 
regions are due to their aboriginal inhab- 
itants, and will pass away with them. A 
country newly occupied oy white settlers 
is neither romantic nor picturesque when 
the primeval forest has been reduced to 
charred stumps, and a long interval must 
elapse before the undefaced glories of the 
wilderness can be replaced by the culti- 
vated beauty of an old and prosperous 
land. In time the fernland and bush of 
New Zealand will be converted into a pop- 
ulous and productive country ; but the 
people and the products will be English, 
and not Maori. Thus the world becomes 
more prosperous and wealthy, but less 
interesting and varied, and the induce- 
ments to travel diminish as the facilities 
increase. Even in older countries the 
variety of scenery, of architecture, of cos- 
tume, of social and political institutions, 
of fauna and flora, so charming at the 
present moment, is tending to become a 
thing of the past, and will be vainly sought 
for by the travellers of another generation. 
An Eastern dragoman once said to me, 
while we were gazing in admiration at a 
crumbling Saracenic edifice, " We see 
these things, but our sons will not be able 
to see them." The feeling to which his 
words gave expression was constantly in 
my mind when among the Maoris and 
Kanakas, whose Unakoe and aloha^ their 
friendly greetings to the passing stranger, 
have all the pathos of an eternal adieu. 

David Wedderburn. 



PAULINE. 
BLUNDELLS AYE. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 
"A LAWN MEET." 

^ Delightful scene ! 
Where all around is gay, men, horses, dogs ; 
And in each smiling countenance appears, 
Fresh, blooming health, and universal joy. 

Dolly, however, went off, highly con- 
tented with himself, and all about him. 

He had employed his time to best ad- 
vantage, said his say; and now that the 
opening was thus happily made, there was 
nothing, he judged, for him to do, but to 
go hard at it, as was his way with the 
hounds. He whistled like a plough maO| 



144 



PAULINE. 



as he rode along the lanes ; and if Lady 
Finch did not absolute!) whistle also, when 
she was informed of all that had taken 
place, she did, at all events, fall silently in 
with her son's views, and sympathize 
in his hope and joy after the most ap- 
proved maternal fashion. 

She did more. She despatched a groom 
forthwith, bearing a pretty little note of 
invitation to both ladies, with the promise, 
of taking out a close carriage to the meet, 
should the morning be unfavorable. 

" And if Miss La Sarte prefers the drag 
there will be plenty of others to make 
a party," said she, meaningly. "Mrs. 
Wyndham is sure to wish to come." 

Of course Mrs. Wyndham did wish to 
come, very much indeed ; and of course 
nothing could have pleased her more, than 
being invited in such a decorous and 
respectable manner. 

She sat with the note between her 
fingers half the evening, passing eulo- 
giums alternately upon the politeness of 
the writer, the elegance of her composi- 
tion, and the long tails of her Y's. 

" I had no intention of going, none 
whatever^^ she said ; ** I did not in the 
least expect to be thought of. But since 
Lady Finch is so kind — has taken the 
trouble to send over on purpose — I think 
I shall really enjoy it Pauline, my love, 
what will you have with your early cup of 
tea ? Somethings you really will need ; it 
will be quite a fittle journey. Tom must 
take care of himself. It is your expedi- 
tion, Tom, — we go on your account. 
You will see that we are in time ? Order 
the landau when you please, and we will 
do our best to be ready, although the hour 
is certainly a drawbacic. I shall go to bed 
a little sooner to-night: this has been a 
fatiguing afternoon; at least " 

She had not wished to confess so much. 
Her nephew had fallen on a lucky day, 
and might be allowed to presume that the 
Grange was ordinarily thus beset. 

" You have the right sort of neighbors, 
I see," said Tom. "That's everything, 
in the country. I suppose you keep open 
house. Aunt Camilla." 

No supposition could have gratified his 
aunt more ; and she regarded the speaker 
with new complacency, as she called to 
mind the manifestly good impression he 
had made upon her guests in general, and 
upon those guests whose opinion she most 
cared about, in particular. 

It was something, not only to have a 
man in the house, but to have a man who 
drew thither other men. It was a great 
thing to have a nephew who could nuke a 



friend of Dolly Finch. She began to 
wonder how she had done without Tom. 
As she walked up-stairs she found in him 
fresh merits at every landing. 

Left together, the brother and sjster 
began to talk. 

" Isn't it capital ? " cried the sanguine 
Tom, referring to his next day's amuse- 
ment ; " I daresay I shall be out, every 
time. This is a three-days-a-week, Fincn 
says. It's a roughish country, and lames 
the hounds, rather. What a jolly fellow 
he is I And didn't I come in the very 
nick of time ? The other one would have 
mounted me too, only he is short of two 
horses; he was awfully civil, but he has a 
duffer of a seat. I don't believe he is 
ever in the field with the others ! " 

All this she had heard before, but full 
of his subject, he had for a time no 
thoughts to bestow on anything else. 

At last, " Those Jermyns were the only 
people here to-day whom I did not fancy," 
said he. " They were not quite the thing. 
Why do you have them over in this sort 
of way ? " 

Why ? Because — well — of course — 
in fact — because she believed they could 
not help it. 

** Oh, nonsense ! " said he, easily. 
" Where is the difficulty ? Tell 'em not 
to come." 

Pauline smiled. 

" You really ought," proceeded the au- 
thority. " I mean it. Get Aunt Camilla 
to letthem know " 

" They are her relations ! " 

" Relations or not — by the way, being 
relations make it worse; she ought to 
have her own way in her own house. She 
ought not to be forced to have those sort 
of people about her. With their bonnets 
off, too I " 

" Bonnets off I " 

** Making themselves at home. Those 
two ladies, sisters, who came in last — 
one of them was Lady Georgina Some- 
thing — they took them for some of us i 
No wonder. Mrs. Jermyn never had 
* sister-in-law * out of her mouth, unless it 
was to substitute * your aunt ' when she 
turned to the girl. I was horribly 
ashamed. I should have liked to h:ive 
said something, only I didn't know how. 
Aunt Camilla should tell them not to do 
it." 

A sudden vision of Mrs. Jermyn's face, 
could she have heard herself thus easily dis- 
posed of, overcame Pauline's gravity, and 
he could not but laugh himself, although he 
did not choose to yield the point. 

Pauline defended Charlotte, but in vain. 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



HS 



She had been seen to no advantage, and 
she had not been heard at all. He would 
not believe a word in her favor. 

No. Mrs. Wyndham must be spoken to. 

•' You are the one to speak to her," he 
said. ** She will listen to you. She gave 
me a flaming account of your illness last 
night, evidently thinking it had been just 
the thing to make her party go off well. 
And that was what brought those fellows 
here to-day? Vm very much obliged to 
you — I wouldn't have missed the chance 
on any account." 

He was too busy and too happv to be 
curious ; it had turned out well for him, 
and he was content. 

" But I should suppress the Jermyns," 
he concluded, after a pause, during which 
his sister had thrice essayed to introduce 
the subject nearest her heart, and twice 
had her courage failed. 

For this she had lingered, believing that 
so good an opportunity would not, in all 
likelihood, recur. 

Whilst he had pursued aloud his train 
of thought, his glib comments, his unhes- 
itating praise or blame, her eyes had been 
searching vacantly among the embers of 
the fire, and she had, with difficulty, dis- 
guised the absence of her attention. 

At everv pause she had inwardly cried, 
** Now ! " iiad drawn her breath, and all 
but begun. 

But then he had struck in again, had 
gone off to his own cares, and hopes, and 
fears. 

He hoped his boots were right. He 
thought he nad a tog that would just do. 
It would not signify that he was not in 
hunting dress, would it ? He could ride 
in plain morning clothes, in the suit he had 
on, for instance. 

Often as she had already reassured him 
on these points, she had again and again 
to reply to this last and most important 
question, had to repeat what had proved 
to be the best consolation, that he was a 
chance visitor, did not expect to hunt, and 
naturally had brought nothing with him 
for that purpose. 

*♦ Because, vou know, I have a coat, and 
Finch wanteci me to send for it," he had 
explained. " But I think it is just as well 
it is not here. He knows I have got it, 
and he does not know I can't get into it 1 
Besides, 1 shall do very well, sha'n't I ? I 
showed you what 1 am to wear, don't you 
remember? Finch seemed to think it 
didn't matter." 

He might have known Dolly all his life, 
80 completely had they fraternized. 

LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 946 



I At last the moment came, for which she 
had well-nigh despaired. 

" I say," said Tom, with something like 
an effort, " whereabouts is Blundellsaye ? 
It is not very far from here, is it ? " 

" About tnree miles. You can see the 
woods from our windows." 

" Three miles ! That's close by ! Well, 
I shall keep out of his way, at all events." 

** You have no need," her voice was 
quite steady and soft. "He is danger- 
ously ill." 

** 111, is he?" 

The eager tone was followed by com- 
punction ; and he added, more gently, 
" What is the matter ? " 

"Typhoid fever. But the worst is 
passed." 

She hoped, prayed, at least, that the 
worst was passed, and remembering her 
own misery, sought to allay his. 

" I'm glad of that," said Tom. " I don't 
wish him any harm, but what a lucky 
thing this illness is " 

" Tom / " , 

" You know what I mean. If he was 
to have a fever, he might just as well have 
it now as any time. He is not the sort of 

man to He'll most likely come 

round," concluded he, vaguely; "and it 
would have been so uncommonly awkward, 
meeting him. He behaved shabbily to us 
all." 

Anv one who did not know Tom, would 
here have supposed that the subject was 
exhausted. 

Not at all. 

A great deal was said about Blundell at 
the hunt breakfast, and by the time it was 
over, he found himself quite anxious to 
claim his acquaintanceship. 

He came to Pauline for a card. 

Had she any of his with her? They 
were to draw the covers of Blundellsaye, 
and some of them were going to ride up to 
the house first, as, in case of anything 
having gone wrong there (his way of put- 
ting it), they would, of course, have to go 
elsewhere. 

His sister had no cards — how should 
she? He had not paused to consider, 
had merely spoken to be heard. 

But Pauline drew him aside. " Do you 
think there is any need for you to go at 
all, at least to leave your name ? " 

" Leave ray name ? Oh, of course," he 
made answer, aloud. Dolly finch was 
standing by, and he was hearkening to 
himself, with Dollv's ears. " I'm an old 
friend, and I shouldn't like him to hear I 
had been in the neighborhood, without 



146 



PAULINE. 



looking him up. We shall only ask how 
he is." 

"Write your name over mine," sug- 
gested Dolly, fumbling for his card-case. 

Tom was delighted ; but what became 
of the card we shall presently hear. He 
need not have been so careful to write a 
manly, illegible hand. 

** You were a friend of Blundell's ? " said 
Dolly. 

Poor Tom ! The temptation was too 
great ; he ruffled his plumage, drew up his 
head, and began. 

Blundell and he had been in Scotland, 
together. Blundell was a rattling good 
shot. He was awfully sorry to hear of his 
illness ; also to miss seeing him ; the only 
fellow he knew in the county. 

Had what he thought been now at va- 
riance with what he spoke, this would have 
been outrageous ; but for the moment he 
was almost sincere ; previous impressions 
were effaced from his slipshod memory, 
and saying what was agreeable to the 
humor of the moment, he felt it also, for 
the nonce. 

A place had been found for him bes\de 
his host, and he had made a conquest of 
Sir John, for he had not only eaten a 
breakfast fit for a sportsman, but he had 
left on his plate not so much as an inch of 
crust of bread. 

Cutlets, kidneys, fish-balls, omelet, dis- 
appeared like magic ; and marmalade, 
butter, and roll were brought to an end at 
the same moment. 

The achievement of this latter feat 
nearly moved Sir John to a " Well done ! " 
for he knew its difficulty; and albeit the 
marmalade was somewhat out of propor- 
tion to the other ingredients of the mouth- 
ful, he respected the man who would not 
make two bites of a cherry. 

A few of his choicest anecdotes were 
related for Tom's benefit alone, more than 
one friendly intimation was confided, and 
a hope was emphatically expressed that 
he would honor them with his company on 
the next day but one. 

Till then they did not go out. 

Meantime, Dolly had slipped into a chair 
by Miss La Sarte, with a smile, and a 
" This seems to be unappropriated," on 
his lips. 

It had not been easy, but he had con- 
trived to march everybody past that chair. 
He had even routed from it a valiant fox- 
hunter, to whom one seat was as good as 
another, but who had strayed into this by 
accident. 

" You are wanted up beside my mother," 
said Dolly, tapping his shoulder. " She is 



looking to you to help her with her tea- 
pots." 

Hereupon Mr. Foxhunter had gone up 
higher with a very good grace, and had 
certainly helped to empty the teapot near- 
est to him, into his own cup. 

"They all seem pretty comfortable," 
said Dolly, looking up and down. " I 
hope Mrs. Wyndham does not mind the 
fire. This room is too narrow by half, 
and a great deal too long ; it should have 
been cut in two, and pieced together." 

He was unfolding his napkin, but a party 
of riders shot past the window. 

" Keep this place for me." And he 
was gone to receive them, leaving her 
determined, if possible, to disobey. 

But it was not possible. Anywhere else 
it might have been, but Dolly was in his 
father's house, and never was barn-door 
cock more completely master of his own 
dunghill, than he was master of those 
halls, one day to be his own. 

Elsewhere shy, awkward, and easily cir- 
cumvented, here, he was cool and clever. 

The new-comers were adroitly mar- 
shalled up the room, and deix)sitea in the 
places he selected for them, without voli- 
tion on any one's part but his own. They 
were folks with eyes, ears, and tongues ; 
therefore he put them where they could 
neither see, hear, nor repeat. 

Then he returned to Pauline. 

But, alas 1 every few minutes brought 
fresh guests, and with each arrival the 
diplomatic process had to be repeated. 
At length the punctual onfs began to 
move, to make way for others, but even 
before that time Dolly's chance was over. 

With all his efforts, and in spite of each 
individual success, he could hardly be said 
to have attained his end. He had been 
compelled to finish a hurried meal, drink 
off a cold cup of tea, and disappear to the 
stables, in obedience to a whisper from 
behind, ere he had, as a matter of fact, 
exchanged a dozen sentences with his 
companion. 

He had shown how willingly he would 
have done more, had fortune favored him, 
and that was all. 

This over, Pauline could draw breath ; 
and the muster, the start, and the brisk 
drive through the morning air, tended un- 
consciously to brace her spirits ; especially 
as she was happy enough to learn among 
the earliest, that the master of Blundell- 
saye was supposed to be doing well. 

The carriages had followed the hunt, as 
far as the cover. 

" Lucky, isn't it ? " said Dolly, who rode 
up with the intelligence. " Although my 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



147 



fovernor"would not go up to the house, 
e was stiff as a poker about drawing the 
cover, till he knew. We are going in di- 
rectly, now." 

They were assembled in a wood of 
stately oaks, and, even as he spoke, the 
more resolute sportsmen were moving to 
the front 

Many, however, hung back. 

** I must po," said Dolly, reluctantly 
turning his horse. "You will come no 
further, I suppose." 

" Get on, man," shouted his father, who 
was experiencing a master's difficulty in 
coaxing the field into a wood, where the 
rides were deep, and the clay holding. 
"Get on. The ladies will wait, and see 
the sport. There's a fox at home there, 
or " The unfinished sentence was 



carried down the wind; he was off, and 
Dolly after him. 

Now followed a hush ; eyes and ears on 
the stretch. 

Then a rustle, a pause, another gentle 
movement, something silently stealing 
along from tree to tree — ere a perception 
of the greatness of the moment has en- 
tered into the minds of the passive rear- 
guard, there enters on the scene, with un- 
quiet eye, and stealthy tread, the fox ! 

The fox ! A great, red, white-throated 
fox! 

" Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! " Every fair one leaps 
to her feet, and the attendants frantically 
holloa. 

They are heard, they are attended to, 
the word is.^ passed, and up comes the 
pack. 

" Gone away 1 " from the end of the 
cover. 

A rare scent. One good hound after 
another opens, as each in turn inhales a 
soul-reviving whifiE, and off they go, 

Over hill, over dale, 
Through bush, through briar, 

horses and horsemen pressing hard behind 
them. 

'* I suppose we have now seen all we 
shall see," says Lady Finch, addressing 
her little band generally. 

" Do you think there is any use in fol- 
lowing lurther?" 

Of course they did not. Mrs. Wynd- 
ham was shivering with cold, but very well 
pleased with her entertainment ; she would 
not weaken the recollection of it, she 
would not run the risk of a less successful 
end to such a beginning. 

In fact, she wanted to get home, and as 
her feelings were shared by the rest of 
the party, the order was given. 



" Only twelve o'clock ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
Wyndham, as she entered her own draw- 
ing-room. " The day seems nearly over ! 
Is it possible that we have only come to 
twelve o'clock ! That we have not had 
luncheon ! That we have still the whole 
afternoon before us ! Well, I should cer- 
tainly be sorry to spend such a morning 
every day, but, just for once, it was ex- 
tremely amusing. I wonder when Tom 
will appear ? " 

They were longing to talk it over with 
him, to hear the event of the run, and to • 
relate their own experiences. 

Pauline, as well as her aunt, had been 
carried away by the animation of the 
moment, and lx)th were disappointed, 
when, at four o'clock, a groom rode over 
for Mr. La Sarte's portmanteau. He was 
to dine at Finch Hall; and, in point of 
fact, he dined there at least every other 
night, during his stay at the Grange. 

They were delighted with him. He 
had acquitted himself so well on his first 
day with the hounds, that he was to hunt 
regularly. They were only sorry it was 
for so short a time ; he must come back 
ere long — must give them another fort- 
night before the season was over. 

He was of the Finch party, at the ball. 

Of the envy and indignation this caused 
in Mrs. Jermyn's bosom he had no con- 
ception ; he was merely in his natural ele- 
ment ; the Jermyns and he had nothing in 
common, therefore he ignored them, and 
he would fain have had Pauline ignore 
them also. 

Her " I should be ashamed of myself if 
I did," he could not understand. 

Why ashamed ? 

Even Mrs. Wyndham kept away from 
their part of the room — from that corner 
where he averred Mrs. Jermyn sat like 
Giant Pope of old, grinning and biting her 
nails at the pilgrims as they passed by ; 
his aunt knew what was what, and his 
sister would do well to follow her example. 
As connections, she might have to recog- 
nize them elsewhere, but not on an occa- 
sion of this kind, not before other people. 
To sit down beside Charlotte Jermyn was, 
at least, unnecessary. 

But for this drawback, the ball was the 
best, as it was the last of Tom's pleasures ; 
the floor was excellent, and he had part- 
ners for every dance. Farthermore, in 
the course 01 the evening, he learnt to 
believe that many more such might be in 
store, for him, for Dolly Finch scarcely 
spoke to anybody but his sister, and Mrs. 
Wyndham judged it only kind, only rights 
to let drop a hint to her dear nephew that 



148 

he might make use of his own observations 
on the matter. 

On the next morning he returned to 
London. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

"so THAT IS YOUR WINTER*S WORK, IS 

IT?" 

Blundell, with everything against him, 
fought for his life, and won it. 

He was restored from the gaping edge 
of the grave ; and many and sincere good 
wishes were now expressed for his wel- 
fare, by the very people who had formerly 
drawn back from his acquaintance. 

Dr. Tyndall could not say enough in 
his praise ; he was the pleasantest, cheer- 
fulest, best of patients ; this illness would 
be the making of him. Hoot-toot ! Let 
bygones be bygones ; Ralph Blundell 
would turn into a fine old English gentle- 
man yet ! 

The rector confessed that he found 
Blundell interesting; and even Sir John 
Finch went so far as to leave his card. 

After this, Mrs. Wyndham told her 
niece that she thought she must wipe out 
the word "terrible." 

Where Sir John led, she might follow; 
and as soon as she met Mr. Blundell 
among the neighbors, she should invite 
him to the Grange. 

" My dear Camilla, and what you do, we 
do," cried her sister-in-law. 

" You shall be the authority ; you shall 
lead the van. William," William was Mr. 
Jermyn's. Christian name, ** Camilla says 
you are to call on Mr. Blundell, and that 
we must have him to come and see us. I 
am sure you will be glad to go, for, by all 
I hear, he must be immensely improved." 

"What did you hear, mamma?" in- 
quired Charlotte. 

" Oh, my love, everybody says so ; and 
Sir John Finch has been to call, and your 
aunt wishes your father to go." 

" But what did you hear ? " 

" Nonsense, my dear ! I have told you 
already. How can you be so foolish, 
Charlotte ? " 

"/have heard nothing," said Charlotte, 
aside to Pauline, " except that Sir John's 
heart smote him because the poor man 
had been so ill, and Dolly worked upon 
his feelings, because Dolly adores Ralph 
Blundell, as all the other Dollys in the 
neighborhood do. They hang upon him 
wherever he goes, like puppies round an 
old pointer, and Dolly yearns to be among 
the puppies. Now, Pauline, upon my sof 



PAULINE. 



emn word of honor, that is at the bottom 
of the whole of this great reformation ! " 

But Pauline was skeptical. 

" Dr. Tyndall thinks very highly of him, 
Charlotte.^' 

" Of course he does. Mr. Blundell has 
paid him the highest compliment one 
man can to another. And a very substan- 
tial compliment it is likely to prove, too. 
Dr. Tyndall will point him out as long as 
they both live, as the trophy of his bow 
ana spear. He will say (puffing out her 
cheeks, and mouthing prodigiously), * Look 
at Blundell ! Ah ! if you had seen him 
once as I did I Never was any one so 
nearly done for in this world ! Look at 
him now ! Big, strong man ; thirty years 
good life in him yet ! ' Of course the in- 
ference is, * Wonderful skill ! Wonderful 
doctor V A second Daniel!* Naturally 
he adores such a patient !" 

" You will of course be a /////^ careful ! " 
Dear Jemima is' whispering at the other 
end of the room. " You must not forget, 
dear, that some people don't carry their 
eyes ticketed on their foreheads. Two 
single women, you know. It is different 
for us. William calls, William invites him 
to the house ; the girls and I have noth- 
ing to do with it. But, any time you have 
him here, dear, send for us. It would be 
better. You understand." 

"You dear foolish thing, to put such 
things into one's head ! We ask every- 
body you know, everybody. All the other 
young men about here come." 

" But Mr. Blundell is not quite a young 
man, dear. He is very nearly forty, you 
know ; and you are not much more " 

"Oh dear, I am — at least " 

" Well, dear Camilla, I must speak the 
truth ! " quite peevishly. " You don*t 
look it, dear, not by many years. If you 
are vexed with me for saying so, I cannot 
help it. It is only rights my duty to let 
you know. People do talk, and will talk ; 
and a little hint given in time, and taken 
in good part, may prevent mischief after- 
wards. Pauline, you know, ah — is — ah 
— very, quite, in fact, unsophisticated — 
knows nothing of the world. And she is 
French, you know — French. She runs 
up intimacies without any idea of the con- 
sequences." 

** If Pauline is French, so am I." The 
La Sarte blood is slightly roused by the 
insinuation, but Jemima hastens to pour 
oil upon the waters. 

" Yes, dear, you are 1 And you are im- 
prudent, and that is why I need to speak ! 
Looking as young as you do, and with 
everything of youth about yeu, even to 



BLUNDELLSAYE, 



149 



insouciance — but I am wrong, I make 
you angry " 

Angry? Mrs. Wyndham is radiant. 
Jemima is her dear sister — her dear, 
absurd, ridiculous, prudishly particular 
creature. For herself? Yes, she would 
plead guilty to insouciance, to foolish dis- 
regard of appearances, and perhaps it is 
well to be reminded. 

But really she had thought that now — 
a widow — at her age ! 

However, if Jemima thinks it wisest not 
to invite Mr. Blundell 

Jemima really does. 

They will ask him. They will show him 
every attention, as Camilla seems to wish 
it But at the Grange, they cannot, in her 
opinion, be too exclusive. 

Blundell gives none of them the chance 
of excluding or including him ; he is in- 
sensible alike to their regard or aversion. 
What is it to him ? He is away from the 
neighborhood the very moment ne has the 
leave to travel, for which he has for long 
impatiently petitioned. 

On the day preceding his departure, a 
suggestion having been made by the but- 
ler, ne turns his head languidly, and with 
a yawn, replies, — 

" Compliments and thanks ? Yes, of 
course. Send round. Here, take these 
away. What are you putting them down 
therefor?" 

It is the cards that have been left at the 
house. 

** Not like to look at them, sir ? " 

" Eh ? No. Clear the table, and let 
Mr. Chaworth know I am down. And a 
glass of sherry, Maddock." 

So he comes and goes ; and the reac- 
tion which had set in m his favor, speedily 
dies out. 

Blundellsaye is once more deserted, and 
distinctly now, amid its leafless woods, 
may be seen from every side the ample, 
many-windowed building, over which the 
sun, as he sets in the west, nightly throws 
his parting beams. 

Snow falls, and then come the east winds 
of early spring. 

Mrs. Wyndham has cold after cold, and 
fancies that the air at the Grange does not 
agree with her. The neighbors are de- 
parting one by one, and she does not 
clearly understand why Dolly Finch left 
immediately after Christmas, and why the 
invitations to Finch Hall have not been so 
numerous since then. Pauline holds her 
peace. "Perhaps," considers the good- 
natured creature, " my niece has had a dis- 
appointment. Perhaps we were, all things 
considered, somewhat premature. Silence, 1 



my dear Jemima, silence is the best, if 
not the only cure for such a misfortune. 
We will not say a word, we will be discre- 
tion itself. All may come right if let 
alone — it may indeed." She endeavors 
thus to buoy herself up, but it is evident 
that the disappointment, if there be one, 
is not confined to Pauline. Mrs. Wynd- 
ham wants a change. Wales ? Yes. The 
mountain breezes would brace her up 
nicely for the London season, to the idea 
of which she clings. 

Would she like Charlotte to go, or Min- 
nie? 

Mrs. Jermyn would be only too happy 
to spare either of the dear girls, and the 
dear girls were by no means averse to 
going. 

" f rather like that poor Pauline," ob- 
served Charlotte, one morning when she 
and her sister were alone together. 
" There is something pathetic about her, 
if you know what I mean. I never can 
be sure if she is what the people call 'sim- 
ple,' or not. She is one thing at one time, 
and one at another. There is something 
fine in seeing her come into a room, so 
cool and composed that you would think 
nothing could put her out ; and then some 
trifle will throw her off her balance all in a 
moment I I believe she thinks she is a 
remarkably strong-minded, determined 
character : and if she believed it to be her 
duty to walk to the end of the world, she 
would gravely set out to do it ; and she 
would Sll on her nose at the twelfth step, 
and sit there looking at you with a pair of 
sad, imploring eyes ! Pauline's eyes 
always remind me of a sheefKiog's who 
has lost his master. Minnie, do you think 
Pauline has lost her master ? " 

"I don't think she has found him. 
Hereabouts, at any rate," replied Minnie. 
A brilliant reply for her. 

" No. That 1 am sure of. Unless — 
but that must have been nonsense. They 
gave a dinner-party the night he was said 
to be dying ! The dinner-party that Pau- 
line was taken ill at — good heavens / / " 

" You don't suppose that escaped mam- 
ma!" said Minnie. "But she thought 
Pauline's influence would have prevented 
any party being given, under the circum- 
stances, if Pauline had cared." 

" Mamma can no more understand that 
girl than she can a book of poetry I " ex- 
claimed Charlotte. " She use her influence ! 
She prevent a partV I She would drive 
round, and deliver the invitations herself, 
and not have the least idea when she 
came home what houses she had been to 1 
If Aunt Camilla chose to give a ball the 



ISO 



PAULINE. 



night Pauline was dying, she would say, 

* Oh, yes,' and put on her best dress for 
the occasion I " 

" What nonsense you talk," said Minnie, 
sensibly. " How could she ? " 

"I am the only one who knows any- 
thing about her," continued her sister, 
without heeding. " Poor girl ! So that was 
it, was it ? I can fancy it all now. I think I 
see her in her amber crape that she had 

* been asked * to wear ! And she would not 
own to a single thrill of vanity. No wonder ! 
Minnie, how did you keep this to yourself 
for so long ? " 

" I never thought of it till this moment," 
confessed Minnie. 

" Then let neither of us say a word. 
Mamma sha*n't have a chance oi worrying 
it out of the poor thing ; but, if 1 go to 
Wales, I shall just try to find out a little 
more ; that would be out a fair reward for 
keeping her secret." 

Charlotte, however, was not invited to 
go to Wales. 

Another great girl, Aunt Camilla con- 
fided to Pauline, would make them an awk- 
ward number. 

It was tiresome to have the back seat of 
the carriage always stuffed up ; and three 
women trailing one after another into the 
rooms at hotels would be absurd. 

Wetherell could look after her and Pau- 
line, but she certainly could not attend to 
three; even in their walks, they would 
find it inconvenient to block up the foot- 
paths, by walking three abreast. Three, 
in fact, was one too many. 

Dear Jemima's hints, therefore, were 
not responded to. Pauline was a charm- 
ing companion, her sister-in-law averred. 
She really was. 

A little absent, sometimes. Rather 
dreamy and fanciful. Rather too much 
wrapped up in her own thoughts. Fond 
of lonely walks, visiting the cottages, and 
everything romantic and young-ladylike. 

All very well in its way; very nice, 
and proper, but still 

However, on the whole, they got on to- 
gether excellently. 

" I don't interfere with her, and she 
does not interfere with me," protested the 
aunt. " And I must say I always find her 
ready and willing to join in any little 
scheme I have on foot. Quite pleased 
with the prospect of this little run. Quite 
bright and busy about it. We shall visit 
all the prettiest neighborhoods, and stay 
at the best hotels. It is rather early for 
Wales, of course, still May is one month 
of their season ; and now that this delight- 



ful warm weather has begun, we shall find 
it lively enough, I don't doubt." 

" So I am not to come ? " said Charlotte 
to Pauline. " That is rather hard." 

" I wish you were, Charlotte. I quite 
expected that you would be asked." 

** And why am I not ? " 

" Because," said Pauline, with a smile, 
" we should be three.^^ 

" That," cried Charlotte, happily, " may 
be obviated. If Minnie came too, we 
should be/i7«r." 

Pauline laughed. 

" Well ? " said Chariotte. 

" Who could propose it ? " 

" Could not j'ou ? " 

" Do you thmk I could ? " said Pauline, 
gently. " I am sure you don't. For my- 
self, I should be very glad indeed to have 
you. I wish you were coming with all my 
heart." 

" Do you, really f Now, I feel quite 
flattered by that. I don't mind about not 
being asked now. I never thought you 
would have cared." 

" Indeed I do," said Pauline, touched by 
the unwonted tone. " You and I would 
have had nice walks together, and we 
would have gone out in the early mornings 
before breakfast " 

" Oh, don't make me jealous again, you 
cruel creature ! I will try not to think 
about it, and be glad you are going to have 
the fun, even if 1 don't. That is a step 
for me, I can tell you, Pauline. I don't 
know how it is," she added, with an odd 
break in her voice, " you always seem to 
do me good, and yet you never preached 
to me in your life. You are not selfish, 
and mean, and untruthful, as many people 
are. You seem to get along without all 
the little shuffles and contrivances that 
they find necessary. You walk right 
straight on, neither looking to right 
nor left, and it all seems to go smoothly 
for you. Now, doesn't it ? You are not 
particularly clever, not so clever as mam- 
ma, and yet you baffle her, I can tell you. 
And you twist Aunt Camilla round your 
finger. And you have all the young men 
in the neighborhood at your feet. 1 wish I 
knew how you did itr" said poor Char- 
lotte, discontentedly. 

Pauline did not answer. She was look- 
ing out of the window with the strange, 
absent gaze in her eyes which made Char- 
lotte think she was "simple; "and when 
she did reply to the next question, " What 
are you thinking about?' it was evident 
that her mind had strayed from the subject 
before the conclusion of the monolo<rue. 



BLUNDELLSAYE. 



151 



^ I was think! ne of your saying that all 
things went smoothly for me," she replied. 
^ I am afraid you will say I have taken an 
opportunity of preaching to you at last, 
Charlotte ; but somehow your saying that, 
recalled to my mind the text, * AH things 
work together for good, to them that fear 
Him.' You don't mind my saying it, 
dear ? I do fear him, you know, and you 
noticed the rest for yourself." 

" Do you really believe it is that ? " said 
Charlotte, with an awed look on her face. 
"If any one else had made such a remark, 
I should have called it profane. Accord- 
ing to your ideas, then, the best thing one 
can do for one's self is to become relig- 
ious. I mean, of course, in the way of 
getting things." 

" Loaves and fishes ? No. You know 
better than that. It is only those who are 
ready to give up, who can hope to re- 
ceive." 

" You would give up, I do believe," said 
Charlotte. " I don't think you would mind 
what you gave up. You never seem to 
me to have taken hold properly, in this 
wicked world of ours. Sometimes I won- 
der whether you ever had a naughty 
thought in your life. Of course you will 
say you have — I see it on your lips ; but, 
1 don't know. You are not like other 
people. I can't fancy you looking after 
your own ends, and being in a rage be- 
cause some one else had got what you 
wanted. I think if anything very bad 
happened to you, you would just — die ! " 

The next time the Jermyns came over, 
it was to say good-bye. 

Charlotte was in wild spirits. 

" Tell me," she cried, " what does the 
little Fennel say to this? Is he heart- 
broken ? " 

" What — does — he — say ? " 

" Good gracious ! has it come to to 
that, Pauline ? Do tell me, quick I The 
audacious monkey ! Keeping it so quiet, 
too 1 When did it take place ; and where, 
and how ? " 

" What do you mean ? " 

" And she dares say that, blushing like a 
red, red rose ! " cried Charlotte, seizing 
upon her. "And she would have gone 
away, without ever having told me, when 
she knows how I have aided and abet- 
ted " 

** What ? " said Minnie, coming in. 

" Shut the door, Minnie. Here is fun. 
Now, Pauline," cried her tormentor, 
" tell the truth, and shame somebody, with 
whom you never had any dealings, my 
dear. Little Fennel has made you an ofEer 



of his little heart, and his little hand, his 
big house, and the biggest pine in his 
garden ! Now, I'll tell you what he said, 
and all about it. He said, 'Come now, 
you had better take me, you really had, 
now. Don't you think so ? Because, you 
see, I'm so awfully in love with you. 'Pon 
my word, I am. And you shall hunt, and 
shoot, and skate ; and I'll teach you how 
to play lawn-tennis, without a net at all I 
'Pon my word, I willl There isn't any- 
body else, is there? Because I'm sure 
nobody else would like you half as much 
as I do, for I like you awfully — I do 
indeed ! Come now. What do you say ? '* 

Pauline laughed so violently that Char- 
lotte grew frightened. 

**Are you hysterical, Pauline? For 
pity's sate, don't go on like that. You 
frighten me out of all the few wits I really 
do possess. You were grave enough two 
minutes ago — I sha'n't dare to tell you 
any more. There, now, do be quiet." 

" It was like, was it ? " said Minnie. 

" I won't tell you. I won't hear you. 
Charlotte, be a good girl, and don't ask me. 
It is not fair. You surprised me into 
laughing, and then I could not leave off." 

" Of course not. I know you are nearly 
worn out. You have been packing all day 
for Aunt Camilla. * Because Wetherell 
is so tiresome, she never does know where 
the things are ; and there is something, 
quite a UttU thing at the very bottom of 
the trunk, which ought to have been at 
the top ! And dear Pauline is the only 
person who can get it out ! And it won't 
take her two minutes ! * Etcetera, etcet- 
era ; and she won't keep dear Pauline any 
longer, for she ought to be looking after 
her own things; and the moment dear 
Pauline is at the door, she is called back 
to rummage for a mother-o'-pearl but- 
ton ! " 

'* Never mind the button," said Minnie. 
" But do just tell us about Little Fennel. 
Only Charlotte and me. And we promise 
not to repeat it, even to mamma. Tell us 
when it was, and what he said." 

" I can't tell you, Minnie. What would 
you think of me if I did? Be content 
with what you have found out for your- 
selves." 

"You refused him, of course," said 
Charlotte. " But did he not want to know 
if there was any one else ? " 

" No, certainly not." 

"And did he " 

" Now, don't say a word more, and don't 
tell Aunt Camilla, or any one," said Pau- 
line, turning resolutely away from the 



XS2 



GEORGES DAMBOISE. 



question. "You ought to be doubly 
upon honor, having found it out for your- 
selves. Promise, Charlotte." 

" And Dolly will be up to-morrow," 
said Charlotte, siffnificantly. 

"Dolly?" said Pauline, with evident 
discomfiture. " Do!ly ? No, I don't think 
so. He is awav from home." 

" Away ? Tnen that was what sent him 
away, was it? He was the first in the 
field. Well done, Master Dolly I He 
knows the value of a good start and a 
clear coast." . 

" Nonsense, Charlotte." 

" Not nonsense at all. Don't think to 
annihilate me with your * Nonsense ! * I 
am too well accustomed to the dear, de- 
lightful word, and have too much sym- 
pathy with the author of 

Sense may be all true and right. 
But, Nonsense, thou art exquisite. 

To return to Dolly. Be good, sweet Pau- 
line (* and let who will be clever ') ; tell us 
about Dolly." 

"She is not likely to tell, while you 
talk, talk, talk the whole time yourself," 
said Minnie, indignantly. " I wonder if 
you ever think anybody else can like to 
say a word ! It's always the same, wher- 
ever you go " 

" I wonder who is talking now ? " 

Pauline hoped that in the altercation 
other subjects might be forgotten ; but 
no; the sisters were speedilv reconciled, 
and returned in company to the attack. 

"If you don't tell us, we shall imagine 
it worse than it was," cried they. 

She would not tell them, and accord- 
ingly thev proceeded to imagine. 

" So that is your winter's work, is it?" 
concluded Miss Jermvn,at length. "And 
a very prettv winters work, too! 'Pon 
my word, it is ! as your little man would 
say. So now you are off to Wales ; and 
there you will break a few more * country 
hearts, for pastime,' ere you * go to town.' 
Well, I won't envy you more than I can 
help, and, considering that you go with 
Aunt Camilla, I am not absolutely sure 
that I envy you at all." 



From Temple Dar. 
GEORGES D'AMBOISE, 

CARDINAL-ARCHBISHOP OF ROUEN. 

It may be unhesitatingly asserted of the 
subject of this memoir that no royal favor- 
ite or first minister of state — and Cardi- 
nal d'Amboise was both — ever swayed 



more completely than he did the mind of 
the monarch he served, or exercised greater 
influence on the domestic and foreign 
policy of his country than did that prelate 
on the public affairs of the France of his 
day. Yet it was neither personal ambi- 
tion nor any special aptitude for dealing 
with the events of a period so marked by 
every kind of baseness, intrigue, perfidy, 
treachery, cruelty, as that of the reign of 
Louis the Twelfth, that raised Georges 
d'Amboise to the elevated position he at- 
tained. • It was simply his unswerving fidel- 
ity to Louis when, as Duke of Orleans, he 
was suffering disgrace and imprisonment, 
and the anxiety of the duke, when he 
came to the throne, to mark his grateful 
sense of the faithful services D'Amboise 
had so long and so constantly rendered 
him. That the manner, however, in which 
the king's gratitude was evinced was inju- 
dicious and fraught with much mischief 
to France in her relations with foreign 
states is clear, notwithstanding the car- 
dinal's acknowledged general disinterest- 
edness and honesty of purpose, from the 
very unsatisfactory results of many of the 
important negotiations he was intrusted 
with. 

Georges d'Amboise was one of a family 
of twelve sons, who all acquired riches 
and honors though their paternal inherit- 
ance was small. Their father was the 
Seigneur de Chaumont, Charles d'Am- 
boise, an intrepid commander whom Louis 
the Eleventh made governor of Dole, 
when he was harassing the Burgundians 
after the death of Charles the Bold. 
Georges was born at the Chdteau de Chau- 
mont, near Blois, in 1460, and was des- 
tined for the priesthood. At the time of 
the accession of Charles the Eighth, in 
1484, he was already Bishop of Montau- 
ban, and the spiritual director of the young 
king. But from the latter office he was 
soon after dismissed, not having succeed- 
ed in gaining the favor of Anne de France, 
the eldest daughter of Louis the Eleventh, 
and wife of the Seigneur de Beaujeu, 
youngest brother of the Duke of Bourbon. 

From boyhood Georges d'Amboise and 
the young Duke of Orleans had been 
attacned friends and companions. They 
were nearly of the same age, and as they 
grew up D'Amboise became the duke's 
confidant, and joined him and his zealous 
partisan, Dunois, in opposing Anne de 
France, when that spirited young lady 
assumed the reins of government, as re- 
gent, to the prejudice ol the prior claim of 
the duke to that office, as first prince of 
the blood Anne had many of the quali- 



GEORGES D AMBOISE. 



^53 



ties of Louis the Eleventh, and aimed at 
carrying out the views of her father, when- 
ever she could find an occasion for doing 
so. Almost his dying injunction to her 
was that she would be a guide to her 
brother. For though Louis gave his son 
some good advice when he felt that his own 
grinding rule was drawing towards its 
close, he knew well that the mental fibre 
of his daughter was very strong indeed, 
compared with that of the poor, neglected, 
and deformed youth who was to succeed 
him. Charles the Eighth was then but 
thirteen, but might have claimed, by the 
laws of France, to rule independently on 
completing his fourteenth year. 

Anne, however, with much promptitude 
and decision, took upon herself the care of 
her brother, whose senior she was by 
seven or eight years, and the direction of 
the affairs of the kingdom in his name. 
With much energy she resisted the at- 
tempt of the Duke of Orleans to supplant 
her, and successfully quelled the rebellion 
he headed. 

It has been asserted by some writers, 
that Anne was, secretly, very strongly at- 
tached to the duke, and that to her irrita- 
tion at meeting with no responsive feeling 
on his part, her resentfulness and persist- 
ent persecution of him should be attrib- 
uted. But the conduct of the Duke of 
Orleans and his adherents seems to have 
called for repressive measures, that the 
peace of the kingdom might be preserved. 
Their vexatious plots and intrigues often 
tended to incite the people to civil war, 
which all the energy and activity of the 
young princess-regent scarcely sufficed to 
put down. When the intrigues of the 
duke had led him on to the very verge of 
treason and endangered his personaf lib- 
erty, he would retire into Brittany and take 
refuge with Duke Francis the Second, one 
of the most refractory of the vassals of 
the crown. That Anne de France — " la 
grande Madame " as she was called by the 
people — should have kept a vigilant eye 
on the movements of her restless and 
adventurous cousin may, therefore, have 
been due to other feelings than love. 

Louis of Orleans has been described as 
handsome, of a lively temper and exces- 
sive gallantry, as excelling in riding, fenc- 
ing, dancing, and all the accomplishments 
of a fine gentleman of that period. 
Charles the Eighth had a very great liking 
for his mutinous cousin, and had he pos- 
sessed any real power would have had 
him always at court, in defiance of his 
sister and of the duke's tendency to rebel. 
Later on, when Louis joined the Duke of 



Brittany, and the battle of St. Aubin was 
fought, he was taken prisoner by Anne's 
forces under La Tr^mouille, and carried 
from fortress to fortress until her pleasure 
was known respecting him. In accordance 
with her orders he was confined in the 
Tour de Bourges, and remained there 
three years. By day he was strictly 
watched, and at night locked up in an iron 
cage, to prevent any attempt at escape, or 
a rescue by his friends. D'Amboise was 
also imprisoned, under the pretext that he 
had intrigued to obtain the promise of the 
hand of the young Duchess of Brittany for 
his friend the Duke of Orleans, should he 
succeed in divorcing his wife, whose 
father, Louis the Eleventh, was his god- 
father — a spiritual relationship needing a 
dispensation from the pope to legalize 
the marriage, and which had never been 
obtained. 

As soon as D'Amboise could exonerate 
himself from these charges, and was re- 
leased from prison at the solicitation of 
the Seigneur de Miolans, the favorite of 
Charles the Eighth, his first thoughts were 
to take steps for obtaining also the release 
of the Duke of Orleans. He avoided 
** la grande Madame," but secretly sought 
the king, who was indeed as well disposed 
towards himself as towards the captive 
duke — joyous companions both, as he had 
found them — and had desired nothing 
better than to open the prison doors and 
set prince and priest free. D'Amboise 
expatiated on the unfortunate condition of 
the duke, his sufferings and privations, the 
harsh treatment he received, and the indig- 
nities offered to this prince of the blood, 
the heir-presumptive to the throne ; and 
he assured the king of the innocence of 
the duke of any offence that could justify 
measures so severe. Charles, who was 
easily moved to pity, vehemently con- 
demned the injustice of his sister's perse- 
cution of his kinsman. His sister Jeanne, 
the Duchess of Orleans, added her en- 
treaties and tears to the supplications of 
D'Amboise, and on her knees begged the 
release of her husband for which she had 
pleaded in vain with her sister. "If he 
has given cause of complaint to any one," 
she saicf, " surely it must have been to me ; 
but it is I, my brother, who implore you 
to liberate him." 

" It shall be as you wish, my sister,'* re- 
plied Charles. And without delay, and 
concealing his intentions from Anne, he 
set out for Plessis-le-Parc. Thence he sent 
a message to the governor of the Tour de- 
siring that the duke might be liberated, 
and requesting that he would come to him 



IS4 



GEORGES DAMBOISE. 



immediately. But instead of waiting his 
arrival, the king rode out some distance to 
meet him, and attended by an escort to 
bring him back with due honor. 

Not content with this, Charles deter- 
mined on a family reconciliation, and, 
Anne, to his great delight, yielding to his 
wishes, they assembled at La FlSche on 
the 4th of September, 149 1, and with their 
hands on the gospel swore to live hence- 
forth in amity and ^^ amour iterneU^ 
Some friends on both sides who had 
taken part in their feuds, were included 
in this bond of peace; amongst them 
D'Amboise, and Philippe de Comines, 
whose prying and scribbling propensities 
were distasteful to Anne, ana had contrib- 
uted to bring him into disfavor. But not- 
withstanding these vows to forgive and 
forget^ the duke, with D'Amboise, was 
compelled to leave the court and retire to 
his chateau at Blois ; so numerous were 
the enemies that Anne's resentment had 
raised up against them. She had indulged 
Charles in his whim; but it was Anne, 
not Charles, tiiat reigned over France and 
ruled with absolute sway; and the attitude 
assumed by her courtiers towards the 
duke plainly showed that they neither be- 
lieved in, nor wished the continuance of 
the amour itcrnel she had sworn. He 
therefore secluded himself in his chdteau, 
leaving it only to follow his favorite pas- 
time ot the cliase. Much against his wish 
the duke had been married at the age of 
fifteen to the princess Jeanne, who was 
then twelve, and, like her brother Charles, 
deformed and ugly. But Jeanne had more 
uprightness of mind and nobility of nature 
than her sister Anne, who was so much 
her superior in physical endowments ; she 
had even pleaded for a husband who dis- 
liked her, from whom she had long been 
separated, and who then sought to obtain 
a divorce from her. 

The regent, Anne de France, had 
schemed to secure Anne of Brittany in 
marriage for her brother, notwithstanding 
that she was, by proxy, already married to 
the emperor Maximilian. The young 
duchess had first been promised to Ed- 
ward the Fourth of England for his son. 
Prince Edward, afterwards murdered in 
the Tower. She was then betrothed to 
Maximilian, on the death of his first wife, 
Mary of Burgundy, a princess who ha:l 
resisted the flattermg cajoleries of Louis 
the Eleventh — who coveted her duchy — 
to induce her to marry his son ; Charles 
being then but eight years of age and Mary 
just twenty. But Charles the Bold had 
arranged his daughter's marriage with 



Maximilian, and she would consent to no 
other. Mary died about four years after 
it took place, leaving a son, the archduke 
Philip, and a daughter, Marguerite of 
Austria. Again Louis saw a chance of 
annexing Burgundy, and this time with 
more success. The little princess was be- 
trothed to the dauphin, and afterwards 
married; she in her third year, Charles in 
his twelfth. Philippe de Comines gives 
an amusing account of the ceremony. 

Marguerite was brought up at the court 
where she was by-and-by to be queen, and 
had resided there nearly ten years when 
the Duke of Brittany died, leaving no male 
heir. Anne de France determined to take 
advantage of so favorable an opportunity 
of uniting Brittany to the kingdom of 
France — a more desirable appendancy 
she considered than Marguerite's dowry of 
Artois and Franche-Comt^. 

Anne of Brittany was not at all inclined 
to accede to the wishes of Anne of France. 
But Charles, with a large army, having be- 
sieged Rennes the affair began to assume 
a different aspect ; the more so as Maxi- 
milian could not find the money for so long 
a journey — for though always receiving 
bribes from all sides, his expenditure was 
reckless — and therefore was unable to 
come in person to claim his bride. Anne's 
advisers urged her to accept the king's 
offer ; she declared that she could not, that 
" neither the king of France nor the duch- 
ess of Brittany was free." Her father's 
friend, the Duke of Orleans and Bishop 
d'Amboise, came from Blois, at Charles's 
request, to press his suit for him. They 
prevailed on the young lady to grant her 
royal suitor an interview, when she was 
so startled by his deformity and ugliness 
that she protested she would leave Rennes 
and go alone to seek Maximilian whom, 
at least, she knew to be tall and handsome, 
rather than marry so hideous a man as 
Charles. 

But, though the reverse of handsome, 
Charles the Eighth was courteous and 
gallant. As one writer says, "6"'// ne 
valait pas beaucoup^ ni de corps ni d^es- 
prit, c^tait un vrai bon diable tout de 
meme.^"* And so far from wishing to marry 
a lady to whom his personal appearance 
was so displeasing, he assured the duchess 
Anne that, grieved as he was at her rejec- 
tion of him, yet the gates of Rennes were 
open to her, and an escort readv to accom- 
pany her to England — for she had applied 
to Henry the Seventh for troops to assist 
her against Charles — or to Germany, to 
his more favored rival, if such were her 
wish. "La grande Madame," however, 



GEORGES DAMBOISE. 



^S5 



took care that the young duchess should 
be made fully aware that Brittany would 
be annexed to the crown of France, what- 
ever her decision might be. 

With Anne, who is said to have been 
"p/us Bretonne que Francaisey^ this had 
probably the desired effect, as in the 
course of a few days the marriage con- 
tract was signed — the king making ** his 
mark," for he could neither read nor write, 
though he was great at paume^ and all 
other games in vogue at that dav. 

Anne de Bretagne was then sixteen, and 
is described by the Venetian ambassador, 
Contarini, as 

petite, maigre, boiteuse d*un pied, et d*un 
fa9on sensible, hien qu'elle s'aide dc chaus- 
sures ^ talons Aleves; brunette, et tr^s-jolie 
de visage, et pour son dge forte rus^e ; de 
sorte que ce qu'elle s'est une fois mis dans 
Tesprit elle le veut obtenir de toutes mani^res, 
Gu'il faille rire ou pleurer pour cela. Elle est 
n^re et opiniitrc ; elle a Tesprit cultive, elle 
aime la po^sic, elle lit les auteurs anciens, 
latins et grecs, etc 

She had learned from the Prince of Orange 
— who as the emperor's representative had 
gone through the ceremony of marriage 
with her — that Maximilian had similar 
tastes; Charles, she soon discovered, 
cared for none of those things, but delight- 
ed in boisterous games and noisy mirth. 
However, their marriage took place, and 
Maximilian not only lost his bride, biit his 
daughter Marguerite was conducted back 
to him with much state and ceremony, and 
with the excuse that " the king being 
twenty-two years of age and desirous of 
marrying, thought Marguerite too young 
to be his wife." Marguerite was then 
thirteen, too young to feel much regret for 
htxfianci^ even had he been as attractive 
in mind and in person as he was repelling. 
But his repudiation of her was an insult 
offered to her and to her father, and, as 
she conceived, to the house of Austria 
itself ; and young as she was, it made a 
profound impression upon her. She be- 
came one of the greatest enemies of 
France ; and as there was in her charac- 
ter something of the energy, subtlety, 
and ability of her grandfather, Charles the 
Bold, she sought and on a future occasion 
found, when treating of public affairs with 
Cardinal d'Amboise, an opportunity of 
making her enmity felt. 

Charles being ambitious of foreign con- 
quest, and not deficient in courage, began, 
shortly after his marriage, to turn his 
thougnts to recovering by force of arms 
the kingdom of Naples, the throne of 
which he claimed as heir of the bouse of 



Anjou. This expedition, of which \he 
command was shared by the Duke of Or- 
leans and the king, though seemingly tri- 
umphant, was productive of nothing but 
misery and the loss of the greater part of 
his army ; for the inhabitants of the cities 
that Charles and his captains had taken, 
or that had opened their gates to him on 
the approach of his formidable hosts, find- 
ing their country devastated and them- 
selves treated with barbarity, rose up and 
expelled the plundering hordes from their 
territory, and brought back their deposed 
and banished rulers. Charles returned 
from his Italian campaign, which was in 
fact but a series of y^/^x and massacres, 
towards the end of 1495, bringing with 
him but a very small remnant of that large 
but undisciplined army that had so lately 
gone forth with him, buoyed up with high 
hopes of conquest beyond the Alps. 

The death of Charles the Eighth was 
sudden, and was caused by a singular 
accident. He and the queen were going 
down after dinner to the moats of the 
Chateau d'Amboise, where a game of 
paume^z.% being played. Passing through 
a long gallery, the door of which was very 
low, the king struck his forehead rather 
violently against the lintel ; the blow 
stunned him for a time, but recovering 
from its effects, he persisted on going 
down to see the players, and remained for 
an hour or so, talking with several people. 
But on returning along the same gallery, 
in the afternoon, he fell backwards and 
became utterly senseless. He was placed 
on a mattress and his physician was sent 
for; but he never recovered conscious- 
ness, and died in the course of a few 
hours, aged twenty-seven. His funeral 
was one of unusual splendor — a very sol- 
emn pageant — for Charles was a popular 
sovereign ; far more so than any of his 
predecessors had been. Yet he was want- 
ing in dignity, and had no great qualities 
of mind ; but, he had g:ained the hearts of 
his subjects by his frankness, good-humor, 
and bonhomie. He was, however, but lit- 
tle regretted, for France felt the need of a 
more competent ruler, and, the dauphin 
having died in his third year, the country 
entertained great hopes that that ruler 
would be found in Charles's successor, 
Louis of Orleans. 

THe duke, after the Italian campaign, 
had again sought the retirement of his 
chateau at Blois, whence he was called to 
ascend the throne of France, April 7th, 
1498. It was supposed that he would now 
revenge himself upon those who had per- 
secuted him during the preceding reign, 



and that La Tr^mouille would be one of 
the first to be disgraced. But on this 
brave captain Louis conferred a command, 
and the fears of his enemies generally were 
quieted by his observing witn reference to 
them, *^que ce fCitait point d un roi de 
France de vender les querelles d*un due 
d'^Orl^ans?^ His youth had been rather a 
wild one ; but he was now thirty-seven 
years of age, and a good deal sobered 
down by his long imprisonment and the 
forced seclusion of the last few years. A 
change iiad been wrought in his character, 
and his people were inclined to believe 
that a prince who had himself been buffet- 
ed by fortune, would be likely to deal 
kindly by them, and relieve them . from 
some of the burdensome imposts laid upon 
them by Louis the Eleventh, and contin- 
ued through the reign of Charles. And 
in this they were not disappointed ; for 
Louis not only reduced the taxes by a third, 
but declined to accept the three hundred 
thousand francs that had been raij>ed for 
the expenses of his coronation at Rheims. 

If Louis the Twelfth was generous in 
forgiving his enemies and relieving his 
people Irom oppressive taxation, he was 
lavish in rewarding the services of his 
friends. His favorite, Georges d'Amboise, 
was immediately made first minister of 
state, and had his choice of the richest 
benefices of the kingdom. If he then con- 
tented himself with the archbishopric of 
Rouen it was due to his own moderation 
rather than to any wish of the monarch 
to set bounds to his favor. But Louis' 
gratitude was not tempered by judgment. 
He now eagerly desired that a cardinal's 
hat should be conferred on the once hum- 
ble-minded priest, who, when a few years 
before the importunities of his royal pa- 
tron secured for him the bishopric of Mon- 
tauban, had achieved what was then the 
highest object of his ambition. His opin- 
ion and advice had now so much weight 
and authority in the councils of state that 
if his suggestions were not, or could not 
be, always absolutely adopted and carried 
out, the king never allowed any decisive 
step to be taken or resolution formed that 
had not his favorite's sanction and ap- 
proval. Of his eleven brothers six were 
provided with bishoprics of considerable 
importance. To the others, the highest 
posts in the army and in the administra- 
tion of justice were given. De Chaumont, 
the archbishop's nephew, was at the same 
time a marshal of France, general of all 
her armies, governor of Milan, and grand 
master of the household of the king. 

In order that the duchy of Brittany 



GEORGES D AMBOISE. 



might henceforth become an integral part 
of the kingdom of France, it had been 
specified in the marriage contract of 
Charles the Eighth that, in the event of 
the king dying without male issue, the 
queen should marry his successor. Louis 
the Twelfth was by no means averse to 
this arrangement. He had long desired 
the dissolution of his marriage with the 
princess Jeanne, and grounded his claim 
to a divorce on Louis the Eleventh's spirit- 
ual relationship to him of godfather, and his 
own disinclination to the marriage, which, 
as he asserted, the king had forced upon 
him. He urged the pope, Alexander the 
Sixth, to appoint a commission to inquire 
into the matter, and a bull was shortly 
expedited, naming the nuncio, the Bishop 
of Mans, and Bishop d'Amboise of Alby 
commissioners. Jeanne was invited to 
reply to the king's allegations, but she 
merely expressed her willingness to con- 
cur in his application to the pop^ and 
desired that *^toutes sortes de satis fac-^ 
tions " should be made to her husband, if, 
as she had not before been aware, he had 
married her against his will. The reverend 
commissioners considered that, de part 
et d^autre^ sufficient reasons had been 
adduced for dissolving the marriage, and 
accordingly it was dissolved. Jeanne then 
retired to a convent at Bourses ; Louis 
awaited impatiently the pope's dispensa- 
tion which was yet necessary to enable 
him to marry Anne of Brittany. 

Alexander granted the dispensation 
very readily, and confided the document 
to his son, Caesar Borgia, who was about 
to visit Paris ; the immediate object of his 
journey being to ask the hand of the 
princess of Naples, who had been brought 
up at the French court. He had been 
secularized but a few days before his de- 
parture from Rome, when the cardinals, 
at the command of the pope, assembled 
in consistory, and Caesar Borgia attended 
in his clerical rohes. In terms more 
haughty than eloquent, he addressed their 
Eminences, and informed them that his 
Holiness had compelled him to take holy 
orders, to assume their habit, and to ac- 
cept the bishopric of Valencia. The pope, 
appealed to, acknowledged that he had 
done so. Caesar Borgia then requested 
his permission to return to a secular life. 
The request was granted, to the great 
amazement of the assembled prelates; 
for thev remembered that a cardinal, who 
desired merely to become a monk, had 
been refused permission by Alexander's 
predecessor to withdraw from the Sacred 
College. 



GEORGES D AMBOISE. 



IS7 



Cardinal Borgia, being freed from the 
yoke of religious vows, without loss of 
time embarked with his retinue on board 
the galores de France that were waiting 
at Civita Vecchia to conduct him to Mar- 
seilles. Thence he travelled with all pos- 
sible speed, and entered Paris with a 
train of attendants so numerous, and so 
splendidly appointed, that the Parisians 
were astonished; nothing having before 
been seen in France at all approaching the 
magnificence he displayed. The affair he 
bad come to negotiate was a delicate one, 
and the pope fancied that bv providing 
his son with the means of dazzling the 
French court by his brilliant entourage he 
would be paving the way to the success of 
his mission. Alexander also recom- 
mended him to keep back the dispensa- 
tion he was charged with to bear to the 
king, and to insinuate that he feared there 
would be some difficulty in obtaining it, 
but at the same time to assure him that he 
would employ all the credit he possessed 
with the pope in his favor. This artifice, 
it was hoped, would dispose Louis to use 
his influence with the prii>cess of Naples 
to induce her to marry Caesar Borgia, and 
to obtain for him the duchy of Taranto 
for her dowrv. 

Caesar had already been rejected by her 
father, though to bribe him to consent he 
had been told that he might look to re- 
ceive from the pope such aid as would 
effectually drive the French out of Naples 
when the threatened invasion of the king- 
dom should be attempted. But Fredenc 
of Naples, at no time considered a scru- 
pulous prince, shrank with horror from the 
very idea of accepting Caesar Borgia for a 
son-in-law, and refused so to sacrifice his 
daughter. 

At the French court, however, he was 
well received, and played his part there 
admirably. The king conferred upon 
him the fertile lands of the duchy of Va- 
lentinois, of which Caesar henceforth 
always bore the title. A pension of 
twenty thousand francs was also granted 
to him, and a company of a hundred armed 
men, for whose equipment and pay, both 
in peace and war, the king undertook to 
provide. He was, besides, promised the 
finest estates in the duchy of Milan, as 
soon as Louis the Twelfth should have 
conquered it ; for he proposed to conquer 
both Milan and Naples when he had mar- 
ried the young queen and set the affairs 
of his kingdom m order. He had given 
warning of this intention to the states of 
Italy by assuming at his coronation, in 
addition to the tiue of king of the two 



Sicilies and of Jerusalem, taken by 
Charles the Eighth, that of duke of Mi- 
lan and Genoa. 

The pope also sent by his son to D'Am- 
boise the coveted cardinal's hat, and it was 
for this that the king had so munificently 
rewarded him. But it was not easy to 
satisfy or propitiate Caesar Borgia. He 
complained to the new cardinal that, al- 
though the pope had so readily responded 
to his and the king's wishes, yet no 
desire had been shown on their part to 
assist in the furtherance of his. " The 
king could not expect to succeed in his 
views on Naples and Milan without the 
countenance and aid of the pope, and the 
pope, he could assure both cardinal and 
king, * ne serait jamais Fran^ais qu*au 
firix de la princesse de Naples! Where, 
too, was the king's consistency in allow- 
ing the princess to remain at his court, 
when he regarded her father as an enemy 
and usurper, and proposed to do his best 
to deprive him of his kingdom?" All 
this was of course communicated by 
D'Amboise to the king, who, naturally of 
an impetuous temper, was for speaking 
his mind freely to his newly-created Duke 
of Valentinois. But his mentor reminded 
him of the dispensation they were expect- 
ing, which the pope might choose to with- 
hold altogether if Caesar's irritation were 
not by some means appeased. They were 
not disposed to violate the laws of hospi- 
tality to propitiate him, but the cardinal 
suggested that he should be allowed to 
make his proposal to the young princess 
in person, and that the acceptance or re- 
jection of it should rest entirely with her- 
self. 

The king assented. But the princess, 
who knew that by consenting to marry 
Cxsar Borgia she would be preparing a 
poisoned cup for her brother, that Caesar 
might prefer at her father's death some 
claim to a portion of his kingdom, as well 
as bringing a heavy calamity upon herself, 
replied to his proposal that as her father 
was still living she had no power, without 
his consent, to dispose of herself in mar- 
riage. And, further, that as he and her 
benefactor and protector, the king of 
France, were unfortunately not on good 
term*, she would prefer to await their rec- 
onciliation — which, through the media- 
tion of friends, she hoped would shortly be 
brought about — before submitting to her 
father the question of her marriage. The 
Duke of Valentinois, as Csesar Borgia 
now preferred to be addressed, of course 
understood the young lady's formal reply 
as a decisive rejection of bis suit, thougn 



iS8 

he attributed it to the prompting of Cardinal 
d'Amboise. And so much was he thrown 
off his guard by his great annoyance at 
being thwarted in his projects by that 
prelate, that he laid before the nuncio, 
with a sort of malicious triumph, the dis- 
pensation he had brought from the pope. 
** While I keep this in my hands," he said, 
" I revenge myself both on the king and 
his minister; the queen must remain a 
widow, and the much-desired invasion of 
Italy be deferred." The nuncio read the 
document, and, for what reason has not 
been made known, communicated the 
contents to Cardinal d'Amboise, and in- 
formed him of Caesar's malicious inten- 
tion. The cardinal hastened with this 
news to the king, who immediately made 
a formal demand for the dispensation, 
which Cxsar sent to him, with some plau- 
sible excuse for the delay in delivering it 
The next day Louis the Twelfth and Anne 
of Brittany were married, and a few days 
after the nuncio was found dead in his 
chair after dinner, the revenge of a Bor- 
gia being always swift and sure. 

Caesar was among.st the first to offer his 
cong^ratulations to the king and queen on 
their marriage, taking occasion at the same 
time to lament his own matrimonial fail- 
ure. He entreated that the queen would 
not refuse him the favor to select a bride 
for him from among the young ladies of 
her court, one who, he hoped, would prove 
less punctilious, less unbending, than the 
princess of Naples. 

Anne of Brittany, who was both "sa- 
vante et spirituelUy^ had from the time of 
her marriage with Charles the Eighth 
sought to attract to her court the most 
talented and beautiful of the daughters of 
noble and royal houses. Amongst the 
demoiselles d^honneur then composing 
her train were three of the ten daughters 
of Count Albert of Navarre, whose son 
had succeeded to the sovereignty of that 
kingdom. They were desirous of marry- 
ing, but their fortunes were too small to 
attract many suitors. The eldest of the 
three, Charlotte of Navarre, was also the 
handsomest, and as her beauty seemed to 
have fixed for the moment the roving fancy 
of the duke, she was asked by the queen 
whether she would object to become 
Duchess of Valentinois. She replied that 
she would not. She knew the reputation 
of both father and son, viz. : " that Pope 
Alexander the Sixth might be considered 
the most infamous scoundrel in Europe 
if he had not been the father of Caesar 
Borgia, a more infamous scoundrel even 
than himself;" but neither this nor the 



GEORGES DAM BOISE. 



urgent entreaties of friends and relations, 
could induce her to refuse the offered 
hand of the duke. They were married 
immediately, and, apparently, the bride- 
groom was no less well pleased with the 
match than the bride ; for, as Varillas 
says, "// devint plus complaisant aux 
volontis du roi, et depuis traita de meil- 
leure foi avec le cardinal d^AmboiseJ*^ 
He, however, did not fail to inform him 
that without his and the king's written 
promise to lend him, after Milan was con- 
quered, the whole of the French troops to 
aid in recovering all the Italian states that 
former popes had consented to alienate, 
his Holiness would not agree to leave the 
duke of Milan to contend unaided against 
the French. 

This was a step too important to be 
taken without due consideration. To con- 
sent to it was to make the house of Bor- 
gia, already too powerful, the most power- 
ful one in Italv; but, on the other hand, 
the king was tent on re-establishing the 
dominion of France beyond the Alps, and 
the cardinal, whose ambition had grown 
with his elevation to power, had views of 
his own which made it injudicious to break 
with the papal court. After some hesita- 
tion, Louis the Twelfth and his minister 
determined to yield, and to buy the pope's 
neutrality on the terms proposed by his 
wily son. The written promise was placed 
in the hands of the latter, and forthwith 
his most Christian Majesty was assured 
that his Holiness would not only give no 
aid whatever to the duke of Milan, but 
that, secretly, he would contribute towards 
his despoilment and ruin. 

An anonymous writer of the seventeenth 
century, comparing the ministry of Cardi- 
nal d'Amboise with that of Cardinal de 
Richelieu, refers to this promise, or treaty, 
as an example of the inferiority of the 
former minister to the latter in political 
acuteness and soundness of judgment 
No minister, he says, however inexperi- 
enced, had he possessed any statesman- 
like qualities, could have been persuaded 
to believe, by such a man as Caesar Bor- 
gia, that the pope would sit, les bras croisis^ 
and allow Louis the Twelfth to take pos- 
session of Milan in order that Caesar might 
afterwards employ the kino;'s troops to put 
him in possession of three-fourths of 
Italy, and fail to perceive that the Borgias, 
having acquired this preponderating influ- 
ence m the country, would immediately 
make use of their power to drive the 
French out of it and to establish them- 
selves in Milan, which they had only per- 
mitted the French to make the conquest 



GEORGES DAMBOISE. 



IS9 



of for them. But another writer (Varillas) 
by way of defending D'Amboise, makes it 
appear that although he promised more 
than he should have done, or indeed, could 
perform, to secure the king an easy con- 
quest of the inheritance of his ancestress, 
Valentina Visconti, he did so believing 
that obstacles would arise to prevent the 
carrying out of the stipulations of thp 
treaty. This is indeed ouite in accordance 
with the cardinal's usual system of diplo- 
macy. He scrupled not to make treaties 
and enter into engagements which ap- 
peared to be contrary to the future inter- 
ests of France ; but they served some 
present purpose, and D'Amboise trusted 
to the chapter of accidents in those un- 
stable and turbulent times — when if 
success in immediate objects could be 
achieved little or no hesitation was felt in 
setting at naught the treaty promises of 
former rulers, or in creating embarrassing 
obligations for future ones — to nullify all 
it might hereafter be inconvenient to 
France to carry into effect A haphazard 
sort of policy, no doubt; though likely 
occasionally to prove advantageous, bear- 
ing always in mind that chicanery and de- 
ceit were the chief characteristics of the 
sovereigns and their representatives with 
whom he transacted affairs. 

Nor was this a policy peculiar to Cardi- 
nal d'Amboise. It was one too generally 
adopted by his contemporaries, and by 
none more so than the popes, the emperor 
Maximilian, and the perfidious Ferdinand 
and Isabella of Spain. And the bad faith 
of all parties was doubtless a principal 
cause of the warfare that was waging 
throughout Europe at the dawn of the 
Renaissance ; bringing misery and suffer- 
ings unheard of on the unfortunate people, 
whose lives and property were absolutely 
at the mercy of the merciless tyrants who 
reigned over them. Louis the Twelfth 
was perhaps the only sovereign who 
then entered into treaties with any inten- 
tion of abiding by them. He, indeed, was 
burdened with a conscience — always, so 
cynics say, a great drawback to success 
— that made him scrupulously tenacious 
of keeping his word when private interests 
seemed to point the other way, and of re- 
fraining from pressing his people in order 
to obtain funds for his expensive Italian 
wars. And as far as the unfavorable 
circumstances of the period allowed, the 
great merit of having done so belongs to 
him. 

Having married Anne of Brittany, re- 
mitted some taxes, and provided for the 
peace of his kingdom and the protection 



of his subjects during his absence — meas- 
ures that secured for him the title of " U 
plre de sou peupW*^ — Louis and D'Am- 
boise set out in June 1499, to assemble 
the army at Blois. Both the king and the 
cardinal-minister seem to have been per- 
fectly in accord in their anxi^y to pre- 
serve France from the miseries of internal 
dissensions and civil war, and no less so 
to carry fire and sword into other lands. 
After pillaging, laying waste, and commit- 
ting many atrocities during their onward 
march — for the armies of the time were 
truly mere barbarian hordes, restrained in 
their excesses only by the more or less 
humane character of their leaders — the 
resistance of a few small towns was over- 
come, ai)d on the 15th of August Louis 
entered Milan in triumph. 

Unlike Charles the Eighth, Louis had 
received no aid from the Florentines, 
whom the famous Benedictine priest, Sa- 
vonarola — who in Charles's time almost 
ruled that country — had induced to favor 
the French. But since the execution of 
that eloquent enthusiast, so feared by the 
infamous court of Rome (and who, on the 
pretence that he had proclaimed himself a 
prophet, was condemned to be tortured, 
and afterwards to be hanged, and his 
body burned), the Florentines had become 
enemies of France, and had given such 
aid as they could afford to the duke of 
Milan. D'Amboise was for treating the 
people with much lenity, and the king, 
adopting the same view, not only laid no 
new burdens upon them, but relieved them 
from many which their own duke had com- 
pelled them to bear. In order still fur- 
ther to reconcile them to a French ruler, 
Louis appointed their countryman, Tri- 
vulzio, to be governor of the city instead 
of La Trdmouille, for whom he had des- 
tined that post. 

The pope and his son, who had ex- 
pected Milan to hold out for five or six 
months, were surprised to find it taken 
at the end of a three weeks' campaign. 
They had been assembling an army for 
their own objects, and now applied for the 
French troops to complete it ; and as no 
excuse could be found for evading the 
promised aid, Caesar took the command 
and marched the army into Romagna, to 
despoil the petty princes of that district. 

The details of this harassing warfare 
are dreary indeed, though relieved by epi- 
sodes of much interest, such, for instance, 
as the siege of Forli, when Catherine 
Sforza, the widow of the Seigneur de 
Forli, and sister of the deposed duke of 
Milan, took the command of the garrison. 



i6o 



GEORGES D AMBOISE. 



and with dauntless courage withstood 
Caesar Borgia, and defended Forli against 
the attacks of the French troops under 
General Alegre. Her persistency in re- 

Celling them so angered Caesar that he 
rought all his cannon to bear on the 
fortress and battered down the walls. 
Overcome by numbers, Catherine, still 
encouraging on her soldiers, and fighting 
side by side with them, was finally taken 
prisoner. She praved her captor to inflict 
the death she hacf failed to find with her 
people. But Caesar Borgia sent her to 
Rome, and the pope ordered that she 
should be imprisoned in the castle of St. 
Angelo. There, probably, she would have 
ended her days, but that Alegre, who had 
vainly endeavored to save her during the 
siege, was so struck with admiration of 
her great heroism that he made an urgent 
request to the pope for her liberation, and 
as his own bravery made his services val- 
uable to Caesar, it was thought expedient 
to comply with it. Catherine Sforza was 
accordingly conveyed in safety to Flor- 
ence, whither she had, before the siege, 
sent her children. 

Louis and his minister left Milan for 
Paris, and immediately the Milanese re- 
volted. The Ghibelines raised eight thou- 
sand troops, expelled Trivulzio, who was 
a partisan of the Guelphs, and invited their 
duke, Ludovico Sforza, to return. No- 
vara only remained to the French, who 
had gained the garrison of that town by 
bribes, and on the continuance of their 
fidelity, until reinforcements arrived, de- 
pended the retention of the duchy. A 
visit from their duke, it was thought, would 
awaken their patriotism. But once in their 
power they arrested him, and gave him up 
to the French. By Louis' order he was 
imprisoned in the Chateau de Loches, 
where, after eleven years of misery, death 
released him from the cruelties inflicted on 
him for the crime of seeking to regain 
possession of his duchy. 

Though Louis the Twelfth could scarce- 
ly endure the short absences of his favor- 
ite minister, which occasionally the affairs 
of the archbishopric of Rouen made 
necessary, yet an envoy in whom the full- 
est confidence could be placed was needed 
to re-establish order in Milan, and the 
king thought no one so capable, and knew 
that none was so entirely devoted to him, 
as D'Amboise. Military as well as civil 
affairs were to be under his control. But 
the cardinal did not wish to give occasion 
for scandal at Rome, by assuming the 
command of the French troops ; he there- 
fore pleaded inability to take the direction 



of the army unless an able general was 
appointed to aid him, and he suggested La 
Trdraouille. 

The cardinal and his general set out for 
Novara, where troops from all the French 
provinces were ordered to assemble to 
meet them. The Milanese, alarmed at the 
approach of a large army, sent four thou- 
sand of their children, dressed in white 
robes and with crucifixes in their hands, to 
meet the cardinal as he entered the city, 
when they threw themselves at his feet and 
implored pardon for the families who had 
revolted. Much affected at the sight, he 
promised pardon in the king's name ; and 
as severity was thought to be impolitic, the 
revolted Milanese were quit for a fine, and 
of an amount not large enough to embar- 
rass them. 

Milan recovered, Alexander and his soa 
again requested the use of the French 
army, that the latter, who had taken the 
title of Duke of Romagna, might still fur- 
ther extend his conquests. The cardinal 
refused it, except on condition that the 
pope would forthwith appoint him papal 
legate for life, for the kingdom of France, 
thus placing him next in power and influ- 
ence to the pope himself. Alexander con- 
sidered the demand too exorbitant to be 
complied with. It would raise him up an 
enemy, he said, in every prelate and officer 
of the papal court, as they would be de- 
prived by it of the revenue drawn from 
France, and be compelled by this reduc- 
tion of their means to live in less stately 
style. Besides, the separation it would 
cause between France and Rome would 
also be most prejudicial to the interests of 
religion and of the Church. 

But Caesar Borgia, who wanted the 
army, coUte que coute^ secretly suggested 
to the cardinal that he should ask for the 
appointment for three years, when it would 
be possible to get it prolonged. Still 
Alexander objected. The finances of the 
papacy would be exhausted, he said, and 
the cardinal become so rich that he would 
be an object of envy and suspicion to every 
noble of the French court, and even to the 
king himself. At this point of the nego- 
tion Caesar Borgia intervened, in quality of 
mediator. He proposed that the cardinal 
should be appointed papal legate for the 
kingdom of France for eighteen months. 
To this the pope assented, and the cardi- 
nal agreed to the diminution of the term 
on an understanding with Caesar that the 
appointment should be renewed, if, within 
that time, his ambitious views were not 
fully realized and the French army was 
still needed. Also, that on the death of 



GEORGES DAMBOISE. 



i6r 



Alexander, Csesar Borgia should employ 
all his influence to secure for D'Ambois'e 
his election to the papal chair. The dis- 
posal of all the benefices, in the kingdom 
for the space only of eighteen months 
would make him, he was aware, the richest 
ecclesiastic in Europe, and enable him to 
remove all the difficulties that opposed his 
elevation to the papacy. 

The matter being thus arranged, Caesar 
resumed his attacks on the smaller Italian 
states; but when he ventured on besieging 
Bologna, whose duke had placed himself 
under the protection of France, he was 
both astonished and mortified at receiving 
a most peremptory command from D*Am- 
boise to desist. Louis the Twelfth was 
also assembling his troops to attempt the 
conquest of Naples, which had become 
more difficult from his having deferred it 
for two years. King Frederic had em- 
ployed the time in preparing for the de- 
fence of his territory; but in order to 
deprive him of the support of a powerful 
ally, D'Amboise was authorized by Louis 
to send a considerable sum of money to 
the emperor Maximilian, and to propose 
to him to enter into a contract for marry- 
ing the daughter of Louis the Twelfth — 
" Madame " — an infant of the age of eight 
or nine months, to the duke of Luxem- 
bourg, the grandson of Maximilian, and 
some two or three months " Madame's " 
junior. 

Maximilian was always glad to receive 
money, and he was scarcely less pleased 
with the proposed alliance ; while still fur- 
ther to gratify him, the cardinal named the 
duchies of Milan and Bologna as *' Ma- 
dame's" probable dowry. For this pro- 
spective alienation of the duchies he was 
generally blamed ; but, as he said, *' Maxi- 
milian was detached from the king of Na- 
ples, and Louis' conquest of his kingdom 
made easier." As for the marriage, that 
was a distant event. One or both of the 
children might die ; the king might have 
male heirs, or might die himself before the 
time for fulfilling the contract arrived ; any 
one of which events would set aside the 
marriage, while two or three hundred 
thousand crowns would always buy Maxi- 
milian's consent to break off the match 
if it should be desirable to do so. 

The cardinal-archbishop, on being in- 
vested with the dignity of papal legate, 
made his entry into Paris, and afterwards 
into Rouen, in a style of unusual magnifi- 
cence. Not only the guilds of the city of 
Paris went to meet him, and a numerous 
deputation from the different offices of 
state, but even the chancellor of France 

LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 947 



did him that honor. " The state canopy, 
borne by the four sheriffs, was waiting his 
arrival at the city gates, whence he pro- 
ceeded to the session-house or parliament, 
where the high seat of honor was accorded 
to him, and the first president compli- 
mented him in an eloquent oration." He 
obtained, at this time, a sedentary parlia- 
ment for Rouen, which hitherto had con- 
tented itself with the jurisdiction of the 
exchequer, and made it the second city of 
the kingdom. The cardinal's pretensions 
to the papacy were now openly avowed, 
and being greatly encouraged by the king, 
the princes of Cnristendom leagued them- 
selves against him, under the pretence of 
preventing the papacy from being again 
established at Avignon. 

But Italy continued to be the battlefield 
on which Spaniards, Germans, Italians, 
and French fought out their quarrels ; 
such men as Gonzalo, the "great captain" 
of the Spaniards, La Tr<5mouille, Bayard, 
and Gaston de Foix, the marquis of Man- 
tua, the indefatigable and brave, though 
infamous Caesar Borgia, and others of 
lesser note, heading the troops. Mean- 
while, crowned heads and distinguished 
prelates were endeavoring by perfidy, 
double-dealing, and every species of triclc- 
ery and baseness, to deceive and outwit 
each other. 

These contentions were, however, 
brought to a temporary standstill by an 
event that caused great consternation at 
Rome, — the sudden death of Alexander 
the Sixth from the effects of a poisoned 
draught, which was to be administered to 
one of the cardinals who had fallen into 
disfavor, but by mistake was partaken of 
by both the pope and his son. Caesar 
Borgia's vigorous constitution resisted, to 
a certain extent, the effects of the poison. 
It did not kill him, but for two days he lay 
in a precarious state, and in an agony of 
pain. His health was entirely undermined, 
and the death of his father brought his 
career of successful crimes to a close. 

When Alexander the Sixth died, Car- 
dinal Ascagna Sforza, the brother of the 
duke of Milan, to whom he had been 
chiefly indebted for his election, had been 
a prisoner in France for nearlv three 
years. Notwithstanding the misfortunes 
of his family, Sforza still retained much of 
his influence in the college of cardinals. 
It therefore occurred to D'Amboise, that 
if he obtained from the king an order for 
the release of Sforza, gratitude would 
impel him to support his pretensions to 
the papacy. The king, who was anxious 
that his favorite should be elected to the 



l62 



GEORGES DAMBOISE. 



papal throne, liberated Cardinal Sforza, 
who as soon as he was released urged the 
king to extend the same favor to the duke 
of Milan. But to this neither Louis nor 
his minister would consent, and the cardi- 
nal, filled with indignation at the sufferings 
inflicted on his brother, returned to Italy 
with a determination to thwart D'Amboise 
and to do his utmost to secure the election 
of Cardinal Piccolomini, the greatest ene- 
my of France. In this he was assisted by 
the Cardinal de St. Pierre-aux-Liens, who 
himself aspired to the papacy. 

Piccolomini was elected ; but the Car- 
dinal de St. Pierre-aux-Liens persuaded 
D'Amboise, with whom he had been on 
intimate terms for many years, and owed 
to him safety and an asylum in France 
when under the displeasure of Alexander 
the Sixth, that on Piccolomini's death, 
which was known to be not far off at the 
time of his election, he would secure the 
votes of the majority for him. Piccolo- 
mini assumed the name of Pius the Third, 
and held his new dignity only twenty days. 
St. Pierre then advised his friend to order 
the French to leave Rome, and to with- 
draw his army from the Papal States, that 
the college of cardinals might not seem 
to be coerced when giving their votes. 
D'Amboise followed his friend's advice, 
for though living in so unprincipled an 
age, like his royal master, he was credu- 
lous and easily imposed upon ; but when 
the cardinals assembled in conclave to 
vote for the new pope, D'Amboise, who 
had felt assured that the sutTrages of 
nearly the whole college were about to be 
given to him, found to his astonishment 
that they were all promised in favor of the 
Cardinal de St. Pierre-aux-Liens; while, 
to hide his mortification, he was compelled 
to add his own vote to theirs. 

The cardinal being elected, took the 
name of Julian the Second, in imitation 
rather of the Roman emperor Julian, than 
from any sympathy with the pious and 
peaceful views of Julian the First. His 
first act was to arrest Caesar Borgia and 
compel him to give up all his ill-gotten 
possessions to obtain his liberty. Weak, 
thoroughly prostrated from the effects of 
the poison on his system, Cxsar sought 
the protection of Gonzalo, who shortly 
after received an order from that treach- 
erous royal pair, Ferdinand and Isabella, 
to send him as a prisoner to Spain. 

The warlike Pope Julian was the de- 
clared enemy of France. It was said of 
him, when elected, " qii'il avait jeU dans 
U Tibre Us clefs de St. Pierre pour pren- 
dre le glaive de Si. Faul,'^ so active a part 



did he take in all the wars, either against 
the French or against the Italian states 
that favored them. "The barbarians 
must be driven out of Italy," was his con- 
stant cry, as he was carried from rank to 
rank when illness prevented him from 
personally directing the movements of his 
troops. So energetic and fearless was he, 
that, at seventy years of age, and com- 
pelled by infirmity to walk with a stick, no 
persuasions could keep him from the battle- 
field. At other times, when bombarding a 
town, he would point the guns himself, and 
if, as often happened, his tent, which was 
generally aimed at, should be overthrown, 
he would hardly consent to have it placed 
beyond the range of the enemy's cannon. 
However, his thoughts were not wholly 
given to war; the embellishment of Rome 
occupied some share of his attention, and 
the church of St. Peter was begun under 
his pontificate. 

The cardinal-archbishop and legate — 
for Julian, in consideration of their former 
intimacy, and the refuge it had procured 
him in France, allowed D'Amboise to re- 
tain the power of disposing of the French 
benefices — returned to Paris much disap- 
pointed and depressed ; for besides the 
treachery of Julian, Cardinal Sforza, who 
had promised to return to his French 
prison if he should fail to secure the elec- 
tion of D'Amboise, declined to leave 
Rome when requested to do so. The 
matter being referred to Julian, he decided 
that Cardinal Sforza's proper residence 
was the papal court. 

Louis the Twelfth had indeed been very 
unfortunate in his Italian wars. But be- 
ing desirous of making another attempt to 
recover what he had lost, he was reduced 
to seek the only alliance now open to him, 
that of the emperor Maximilian, who had 
already made nearly twenty treaties with 
France, and executed none of them. But it 
was thought that Marguerite of Austria, 
now the widowed duchess of Savoy, pos- 
sessed the probity which was so entirely 
wanting in the character of her father ; and 
that as she had shown some talent for nego- 
tiation on more than one occasion, she 
would probably insist on Maximilian per- 
forming what she had promised in his name, 
if he would permit her to act for him. He 
consented to do so, and sent the duchess a 
formal procuration. Upon which she and 
the cardinal-minister met at Cambray to 
settle the affairs of Europe ; for a league 
of the continental powers had been formed, 
and their various interests were to be dis- 
cussed at this meeting and the result 
made known to their representatives, who 



GEORGES DAMBOISE. 



were not to be allowed to take part in the 
discussion. 

D'Amboise was appointed by Louis his 
sole representative, with powers more 
ample than were ever delegated to envoy 
or ambassador before or since. He gave 
him no instructions, written or oral, but 
abandoned everything to his discretion. 
And so highly delighted was the cardinal- 
minister at this /^/^-^-/^/^ negotiation with 
the most talented and accomplished prin- 
cess in Europe, that he allowed her to 
derive from it every advantage she could 
desire. Maximilian had good reason to 
be satisfied with his ambassadress ; for 
she induced the cardinal to agree to the 
articles of this Franco-German treatv, 
which had been drawn up by her with all 
the skill and artifice of an able diplomatist, 
and by which France was bound to incur 
all risks and defray all expenses of the 
war, but was to reap from it the smallest 
possible benefit The temporal power of 
Rome was also so much increased by this 
negotiation, that Louis* great object, the 
entire conquest of Naples, was rendered 
even more arduous, if not altogether im- 
possible. 

While the armies were collecting and 
the tambour beating up recruits in the 
provinces of France, D'Amboise retired 
from the affairs of state, and sought re- 
pose in Rouen. This city owed much to 
him. He built churches, repaired public 
buildings and erected new ones. He em- 
bellished the environs, laid out squares 
and ornamented them with fountains, and 
generally strove to improve and beautify 
the seat of his archbishopric. 

The army being ready and Louis unable 
to dispense with the presence of his min- 
ister, the cardinal left Rouen, and once 
more was en route for Italy. Some suc- 
cess against the Venetians attended the 
French army in this campaign ; but fresh 
political complications arose from Maxi- 
milian offering to place Verona in the 
hands of the king, and from the failure of 
Ferdinand of Aragon and the emperor to 
settle to their mutual satisfaction (Isabella 
having died) the question of the govern- 
ment of Castile during the minority of the 
archduke their grandson, and the contin- 
uance of the insanity of Jeanne, his mother. 
Julian attempted to arrange their differ- 
ences, but failing therein Cardinal d'Am- 
boise undertook the office of mediator. 
"If he did not succeed," the pope re- 
marked, "it would divert his thoughts 
from the papacy.'* For he still kept his 
eyes on the triple crown, and hoped event- 
ually to wear it, as he was twenty years 



163 

younger than Julian, and both he and 
Louis the Twelfth were convinced that it 
was the only means whereby the domin- 
ion of the French in Italy could be firmly 
established. Therefore, they did all in 
their power to keep on good terms with 
those countries that could, in this respect, 
further their views. Ferdinand had art- 
fully told D'Amboise that without the 
Spanish cardinals he would never be pope. 
It was to his interest, then, to reconcile 
the Spanish king and the German empe- 
ror, and to put the Venetians on good 
terms with the latter, which they had not 
been for some time ; and both these diflS- 
cult negotiations he succeeded in. 

The mental anxiety thev occasioned 
him, and the great bodily fatigue of the 
long journeys he took to effect the recon- 
ciliation from which resulted all the mis- 
fortunes of the reign of Francis the First, 
brought on an illness, from which, after 
lingering for several months, he died at 
Milan, in 15 10, at the age of fifty. During 
these last few months he was constantly 
carried on a litter, to attend the councils of 
state. The king, who retained the fullest 
confidence in him, was most assiduous in 
his attentions to him in his illness, and 
grieved long, and no doubt most sincerely, 
for the loss of his favorite and friend. 
D'Amboise had served him with unswerv- 
ing fidelity, and, if his talents were not great 
as a statesman, to the best of his ability. 
He was indeed a man of too much hon- 
esty of principle to cope with the unscru- 
pulous and crafty diplomatists of that age. 
Repeatedly deceived, he could still believe 
in the friendship of one prince, the good 
faith of another, and with the view of 
gaining his ends, was too often flexible 
where more far-seeing politicians would 
have been unyielding and have attained 
their objects with more certainty. 

It was perhaps unfortunate for France 
and his own reputation that Cardinal 
d'Amboise aspired to the papacy; as it 
raised up enemies in those quarters where 
the aggrandisement of France was not 
desired, and made him timeserving in 
others, in order to gain the promise of 
support which it was never intended to 
afford him. Though ambitious of power, 
and, like Louis the Twelfth, considered 
rather penurious, he did not hoard wealth, 
but employed his lar;^e revenues in bene- 
fiting the Church, in relieving the poor, 
and in acts of private charitable munifi- 
cence. 

Julian claimed to be his heir, but the 
claim was resisted. On hearing of the 
cardinal's death, he exclaimed, "Thank 



i64 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, 



God ! there is now but one pope, and I 
could never feel sure of that while D'Am- 
boise was alive." It was supposed that 
Julian's enmity to France would abate 
on the death of D'Amboise, but it seemed 
rather to increase, and he remained to the 
end of his life the most inveterate enemy 
of the French. The vacant seat in the 
college of cardinals was bestowed on 
Wolsey, to whom Julian, who hoped to 
keep Louis the Twelfth out of Italy by 
inducing the English to invade France, 
sent a cardinal's hat. 

Large sums were left by Cardinal d'Am- 
botse to be expended, as his will directed, 
for the benefit of the poor. Bequests of 
various amounts were made to his rela- 
tions, whom he advised to abstain from 
any interference in affairs of state. He 
expressed great regret at having em- 
ployed in them so much of his own time 
that ought to have been given to the relig" 
ious instruction of the people of his dio- 
cese, and his last words, addressed to the 
friar who attended him in the convent 
where he died, were, " Je voudrais tC avoir 
iti toute ma vie que Mre JeanP He 
was much lamented by the people, bv whom 
he was greatly beloved and connded in, 
and who were accustomed to sav, when 
any dangers threatened France in those 
unquiet times, " On n'a que laisser faire 
d Georges,^^ C. C. J. 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 

BY GEORGE MACDONALD, AUTHOR OF 
"MALCOLM," ETC. 



CHAPTER LXV. 
THE EVE OF THE CRISIS. 

It was late in the sweetest of summer 
mornings when the Partan's boat slipped 
slowly back with a light wind to the har- 
bor of Portlossie. Malcolm did not wait 
to land the fish, but having changed his 
clothes and taken breakfast with Duncan, 
who was always up early, went to look 
after Kelpie. When he had done with 
her, finding some of the household already 
in motion, he went through the kitchen, 
and up the old corkscrew stone stair to 
his room, to have the sleep he generally 
had before his breakfast. Presently came 
a knock at his door, and there was Rose. 

The girl's behavior to Malcolm was 
much changed. The conviction had been 
strengthening in her that he was not what 
he seemed, and she regarded him now 



with a vague awe. But there was fear 
in her eyes now, as she looked this way 
a.id that along the passage, and then crept 
timidly inside his door to tell him, in a 
hurried whisper, that she had seen the 
woman who gave her the poisonous philtre 
talking to Caley the night before at the 
foot of the bridge, after everybodv else 
was in bed. She had been miseraole till 
she could warn him. He thanked her 
heartily, and said he would be on his 
guard : he would neither eat nor drink in 
the house. She crept softly away. He 
secured his door, lay down, and, trying to 
think, fell asleep. 

When he woke his brain was clear. 
The very next day, whether Lenorme 
came or not, he would declare himself. 
That night he would go fishing with Lady 
Clementina, but not one day longer would 
he allow those people to be about his sis- 
ter. Who could tell what might not be 
brewing, or into what abyss, with the help 
of htv friends, the woman Catanach might 
not plunge Florimel } 

He rose, took Kelpie out, and had a 
good gallop. On his way back he saw in 
the distance Florimel riding with Liftore. 
The earl was on his father's bay mare. 
He could not endure the sight, ana dashed 
home at full speed. 

Learning from Rose that Lady Clemen- 
tina was in the flower-garden, he found 
her at the swan-basin feeding the gold 
and silver fishes. An under-gardener, 
who had been about the place for thirty 
years, was at work not far off. The light 
splash of the falling column which the 
marble swan spouted from its upturned 
beak prevented her from hearing his ap- 
proach until he was close behind her. 
She turned, and her fair face took the 
flush of a white rose. 

** My lady," he said, " I have got every- 
thing arranged for to-night." 

" And when shall we go ? " she asked 
eagerly. 

" At the turn of the tide, about half past 
seven. But seven is your dinner-hour." 

"It is of no consequence. But could 
you not make it half an hour later, and 
then I should not seem rude ? " 

" Make it any hour you please, my lady, 
so long as the tide is falling." 

" Let it be eight then, and dinner will 
be almost over. They will not miss me 
after that Mr. Cairns is going to dine 
with them. I think, except Liftore, I 
never disliked a man so much. Shall I 
tell them where I am going ? " 

" Yes, my lady. It will be better. They 
will look amazea, for all their breeding." 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



i6S 



" Whose boat is it, that I may be able 
to tell thorn if they should ask me ? " 

"Joseph Mair*s. He and his wife will 
come and fetch you. Annie Mair will go 
with us — if I may say us : will you al- 
low me to go in your boat, my lady ? " 

" I couldn't go without you, Malcolm." 

" Thank you, my lady. Indeed, I don't 
know how I could let you go without me. 
Not that there is anything to fear, or that 
I could make it the least safer ; but some- 
how it seems my business to take care of 
you." 

" Like Kelpie ? '* said Clementina, with 
a merrier smile than he had ever seen on 
her face before. 

**Yes, my lady," answered Malcolm: 
*• if to do for you all and the best you will 
permit me to do be to take care of you 
like Kelpie, then so it is." 

Clementina gave a little sigh. 

" Mind you don't scruple, my lady, to 
give what orders you please. It will be 
your fishing-boat for to-night." 

Clementina bowed her head in acknowl- 
edgment. 

" And now, my lady," Malcolm went on, 
" just look about you for a moment. See 
this great vault of heaven, full of golden 
light raining on trees and flowers, every 
atom of air shining. Take the whole into 
your heart, that you may feel the differ- 
ence at night, my lady, when the stars, 
and neither sun nor moon, will be in the 
sky, and all the flowers they shine on will 
be their own flitting, blinking, swinging, 
shutting and opening reflections in the 
swaying floor of the ocean — when the 
heat will be gone, and the air clean and 
clear as the thouorhts of a saint. 

Clementina did as he said, and gazed 
above and around her on the glory of the 
summer day overhanging the sweet gar- 
den, and on the flowers that had just be- 
fore been making her heart ache with their 
unattainable secret. But she thought with 
herself that if Malcolm and she but shared 
it with a common heart as well as neigh- 
bored eyes, gorgeous day and ethereal 
night, or snow-clad wild and sky of stormy 
blackness, were alike welcome to her 
spirit. 

As they talked they wandered up the 
garden, and had drawn near the spot 
where, in the side of the glen, was hol- 
lowed the cave of the hermit. They now 
turned toward the pretty arbor of moss 
that covered its entrance, each thinking 
the other led, but Malcolm not without 
reluctance. For how horribly and unac- 
countably had he not been shaken, the 
only time he ever entered it, at sight of 



the hermit! The thing was a foolish 
wooden figure, no doubt, but the thought 
that it still sat over its book in the darkest 
corner of the cave, readv to rise and ad- 
vance with outstretched hand to welcome 
its visitor, had, ever since then, sufliced 
to make him shudder. He was on the 
point of warning Clementina, lest she too 
should be worse than startled, when he 
was arrested by the voice of John Jack, 
the old gardener, who came stooping after 
them, looking a sexton of flowers. 

" Ma'colm, Ma'colm ! " he cried, and 
crept up wheezing. " I beg yer leddy- 
ship's pardon, my leddy, but I wadna hae 
Ma'colm lat ye gang in there ohn tellt ye 
what there is inside." 

"Thank you, John. I was just going 
to tell my lady," said Malcolm. 

" Because, ye see," pursued John, " I 
was ae day here i' the gairden — an' I was 
jist graftin' a bonny wull rose-buss wi' a 
Hector o' France, an' it grew to be the 
bonniest rose-buss in a' the haill gairden 
— whan the markis — no the auld markis, 
but my leddy's father — cam' up the walk 
there, an' a bonny yoong leddy wi' his 
lordship, as it micht be yersel's twa, an' 
I beg your pardon, my leddy, but I'm an 
auld man noo, an' whiles forgets the differs 
at ween fowk, an' this yoong leddy 'at 
they ca'd Miss Cam'ell — ye kennea her 
yersel' efterhin', I daur say, Ma'colm — 
he was unco ta'en wi' her, the markis, as 
ilka body cud see ohn luikit that near, sae 
'at some said 'at hoo he hed no richt to 
gang on wi' her that gait, garrin' her be- 
lieve, gien he wasna gaein' to merry her. 
That's naither here nor there, hooevei;, 
seein' it a' cam' to jist naething ava'. Sae 
up they gaed to the cave yon'er, as I was 
tellin' ye ; an' hoo it was was a won'er, 
for I s' warran' she had been aboot the 
place near a towmon (twelvemonth), but 
never had she been intil that cave, an' 
kenned no more nor the bairn unborn what 
there was in 't. An' sae whan the aire- 
mite, as the auld minister ca'd him — 
though what for he ca'd a muckle block 
like yon an airy mttey I'm sure I never 
cud fathom — whan he gat up, as I was 
sayin' an' cam' foret wi' his han' oot, she 
gae a scraich 'at jist garred my lugs dirl, 
an' doon she drappit; an' there, whan I 
ran up, was she lyin' i' the markis his 
airms, as white 's a cauk eemage ; an' it 
was lang or he broucht her till hersel', for 
he wadna lat me rin for the hoosekeeper, 
but sent me fleein' to the f'untain for wat- 
ter, an' gied me a gowd guinea to baud my 
tongue aboot it a'. Sae noo, my leddy, 
ye're forewarnt, an' no ill can come to ye, 



i66 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



for there's naething to be fleyt at whan ye 
ken what's gauin' to meet ye." 

Malcolm had turned his head aside, and 
now moved on without remark. Struck 
by his silence, Clementina looked up and 
saw his face very pale and the tears stand- 
ing in his eyes. "You must tell me the 
sad story, Malcolm," she murmured, " J 
could scarcely understand a word the old 
man said." 

He Continued silent, and seemed strug- 
gling with some emotion. But when they 
were within a few paces of the arbor he 
stopped short and said, " I would rather 
not go in there to-day. You would oblige 
me, my lady, if you would not go." 

She looked up at him again with wonder 
but more concern in her lovely face, put 
her hand on his arm, gentlv turned him 
away and walked back with him to the 
fountain. Not a word more did she say 
about the matter. 

CHAPTER LXVI. 
SEA. 

The evening came, and the company at 
Lossie House was still seated at table, 
Qementina heartily weary of the vapid talk 
that had been going on all through the din- 
ner, when she was informed that a fisher- 
man of the name of Mair was at the door, 
accompanied by his wife, saying they had 
an appointment with her. She had already 
acquainted her hostess, when first they sat 
down, with her arrangements for going 
a-fishing that night, and much foolish talk 
and would-be wit had followed : now, when 
she rose and excused herself, they all 
wished her a pleasant evening, in a tone 
indicating the conviction that she little 
knew what she was about, and would soon 
be longing heartily enough to be back with 
them in the drawing-room, whose lighted 
windows she would see from the boat. 
But Clementina hoped otherwise, hurriedly 
changed her dress, hastened to join Mal- 
colm^ messengers, and almost in a mo- 
ment had made the two childlike people at 
home with her by the simplicity and truth 
of her manner and the directness of her 
utterance. They had not talked with her 
five minutes before they said in their 
hearts that here was the wife for the mar- 
quis if he could get her. 

" She's just like ane o' oorsel's," whis- 
pered Annie to her husband on the first 
opportunity, " only a hantle better an' bon- 
nier." 

They took the nearest way to the har- 
bor — through the town — and Lady 
Clementina and Blue Peter kept up a con- 



stant talk as they went. All in the streets 
and at the windows stared to see the 
grand lady from the house walking between 
a Scaurnose fisherman and his wife, and 
chatting away with them as if they were 
all fishers together. 

"What's the world comin' till? "cried 
Mrs. Mellis, the draper's wife, as she saw 
them pass. 

*• I'm glaid to see the yoong wuman — 
an' a bonny lass she is — in sic guid com- 
pany," said Miss Horn, looking down 
from the opposite side of the way. ** I'm 
thinkin' the han' o' the markis 'ill be i' 
this, no' I " 

All was ready to receive her, but in the 
present bad state of the harbor, and the 
tide having now ebbed a little way, the 
boat could not get close either to quay or 
shore. Six of the crew were on board, 
seated on the thwarts with their oars 
shipped, for Peter had insisted on a cer- 
tain approximation to man-of-war manners 
and discipline for the evening, or at least 
until they got to the fishing-ground. The 
shore itsell formed one side of the harbor, 
and sloped down into it, and on the sand 
stood Malcolm with a young woman, whom 
Clementina recogn'zed at once as the girl 
she had seen at the Findlays'. 

** My lady," he said, approaching, 
" would you do me the favor to let Lizzy 
go with you.** She would like to attend 
your ladyship, because, being a fisherman's 
daughter, she is used to the sea, and Mrs. 
Mair is not so much at home upon it, 
being a farmer's daughter from inland." 

Receiving Clementina's thankful assent, 
he turned to Lizzy and said, ***Min' ve tell 
my lady what rizzon ye ken whaurmr my 
mistress at the hoose sudna be merried 
upo' Lord Liftore — him 'at was Lord 
Meikleham. Ye may speyk to my lady 
there as ye wad to mysel ; an' better, haein' 
the hert o' a wuman." 

Lizzy blushed a deep red, and dared 
but the glimmer of a glance at Clemen- 
tina, but there was only shame, no annoy- 
ance, in her face. 

"Ye winna repent it, Lizzy," concluded 
Malcolm, and turned away. 

He cherished a faint hope that if she 
heard or guessed Lizzy's story, Clemen- 
tina might yet find some way of bringing 
her influence to bear on his sister even at 
the last hour of her chance ; from which, 
for her sake, he shrunk the more the 
nearer it drew. Clementina held out her 
hand to Lizzy, and again accepted her 
offered service with kindly thanks. 

Now, Blue Peter, having been ship's 
carpenter in his day, had constructed a 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



167 



little poop in the stern of his craft : there- 
on Malcolm had laid cushions and pillows 
and furs and blankets from the Psyche — 
a grafting of Cleopatra's galley upon the 
rude fishmg-boat — and there Clementina 
was to repose in state. Malcolm gave a 
sign : Peter took his wife in his arms, and, 
walking through the few vards of water 
between, lifted her into the boat, which 
lay with its stern to the shore. Malcolm 
and Clementina turned to each other : he 
was about to ask leave to do her the same 
service, but she spoke before him. " Put 
Lizzy on board first," she said. 

He obeyed, and when, returning, he 
again approached her, "Are you able, 
AI alcolm ? " she asked. " I am very 
heavy." 

He smiled for all reply, took her in his 
arms like a child, and had placed her on 
the cushions before she had time to realize 
the mode of her transference. Then tak- 
ing a stride deeper into the water, he 
scrambled on board. The same instant 
the men gave way. They pulled carefully 
through the narrow jaws of the little har- 
bor, and away, with quivering oar and fall- 
ing tide, went the boat, gliding out into 
the measureless north, where the horizon 
was now dotted with the sails that had 
preceded it. 

No sooner were they afloat than a kind 
of enchantment enwrapped and possessed 
the soul of Clementina. Everything 
seemed all at once changed utterly. The 
very ends of the harbor-piers might have 
stood in the " Divina Cotnmedia " instead 
of the Moray Frith. Oh that wonderful 
look everything wears when beheld from 
the other side ! Wonderful surely will 
this world appear — strangely more — 
when, become children again bv being 
gathered to our fathers, joyous day ! we 
turn and gaze back upon it from the other 
side ! I imagine that to him who has 
overcome it the world, in very virtue of 
his victory, will show itself the lovely and 
pure thing it was created, for he will see 
through the cloudy envelope of his battle 
to the living kernel below. The cliffs, the 
rocks, the sands, the dune, the town, the 
very clouds that hung over the hill above 
Lossie House, were in strange fashion 
transfigured. To think of people sitting 
behind those windows while the splendor 
and freedom of space with all its divine 
shows invited them, lay bare and empty to 
them ! Out and still out they rowed and 
drifted till the coast began to open up be- 
yond the headlands on either side. There 
a light breeze was waiting them. Up then 
went three short masts, and three dark- 



brown sails shone red in the sun, and Mal- 
colm came aft, over the great heap of 
brown nets, crept with apology across the 
poop, and got down into a little well be- 
hind, there to sit and steer the boat ; for 
now, obedient to the wind in its sails, it 
went frolicking over the sea. 

The Bonnie Annie bore a picked crew, 
for Peter's boat was to him a sort of 
church, in which he would not, with his 
will, carry any Jonah fleeing from the will 
of the Lord of the sea. And that boat's 
crew did not look the less merrily out of 
their blue eyes, or carry themselves less 
manfully in danger, that they believed a 
Lord of the earth and the sea and the 
fountains of water cared for his children, 
and would have them honest and fear- 
less. 

And now came a scattering of rubies 
and topazes over the slow waves as the 
sun reached the edge of the horizon and 
shone with a glory of blinding red along 
the heaving level of green, dashed with 
the foam of their flight. Could such a 
descent as this be intended for a type of 
death? Clementina asked. Was it not 
rather as if, from a corner of the tomb 
behind, she saw the back parts of a resur- 
rection and ascension, — warmth, outshin- 
ing, splendor ; departure from the door of 
the tomb; exultant memory; tarnishing 
gold, red fading to russet; fainting of 
spirit, loneliness ; deepening blue and 
green ; pallor, gravness, coldness ; out- 
creeping stars ; further-reaching memory ; 
the dawn of infinite hope and foresight; 
the assurance that under passion itself lay 
a better and holier mystery? Here was 
God's naughty child, the world, laid asleep 
and dreaming — if not merrily yet con- 
tentedly — and there was the sky, with all 
the day gathered and hidden up in its 
blue, ready to break forth again in laughter 
on the morrow, bending over its skyey 
cradle like a mother ; and there was the 
aurora, the secret of life, creeping away 
round to the north to be ready. Then 
first, when the slow twilight had tairly set- 
tled into night, did Clementina begin to 
know the deepest marvel of this facet of 
the rose-diamond life ! God's night and 
sky and sea were hers now, as they had 
been Malcolm's from childhood. And 
when the nets had been paid out, and 
sunk straight into the deep, stretched be- 
twixt leads below and floats and buoys 
above, extending a screen of meshes 
against the rush of the watery herd ; when 
the sails were down, and the whole vault 
of stars lay bare to her eyes as she lay ; 
when the boat was still, last to the nets, 



1 68 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



anchored as it were by hanging acres of 
curtain, and all was silent as a church, 
waiting, and she might dream or sleep or 

Eray as she would, with nothing about her 
ut peace and love and the deep sea, and 
over her but still peace and love and the 
deeper sky, then the soul of Clementina 
rose and worshipped the soul of the uni- 
verse ; her spirit clave to the life of her 
life, the thought of her thought, the heart 
of her heart ; her will bowecT itself to the 
Creator of will, worshipping the supreme, 
original, only freedom — the Father of her 
love, the Father of Jesus Christ, the God 
of the hearts of the universe, the thinker 
of all thoughts, the beginner of all begin- 
nings, the All-in-all. It was her first expe- 
rience of speechless adoration. 

Most of the men were asleep in the 
bows of the boat : all were lying down but 
one. That one was Malcolm. He had 
come aft and seated himself under the 
platform, leaning against it The boat 
rose and sank a little, just enough to rock 
the sleeping children a little oeeper into 
their sleep: Malcolm thought all slept. 
He did not see how Clementina^s eyes 
shone back to the heavens, no star in 
them to be named beside those eyes. She 
knew that Malcolm was near her, but she 
would not speak, she would not^reak the 
peace of the presence. A minute or two 
passed. Then softly woke a murmur of 
sound that strengthened and grew, and 
swelled at last into a song. She feared 
to stir lest she should interrupt its flow. 
And thus it flowed : — 

The stars are steady abune ; 

I* the water they flichter an* flee ; 
But steady aye luikin' doon, 

They ken themsel's i* the sea. 

A' licht, an' clear, an* free, 

God, thou shinest abune : 
Yet luik an* see thysel* in me, 

God, whan thou luikest doon. 

A silence followed, but a silence that 
seemed about to be broken. And again 
Malcolm sang : — 

There was an auld fisher, he sat by the wa*, 

An* luikit oot owcr the sea : 
The bairnies war playin* ; he smilit on them a*, 
But the tear stude in his e*e. 

An* it's oh to win awa', awa* 1 

An* its oh to win awa*, 
Whaur the bairns come hame, an* 
the wives they bide. 
An* God is the Father o' a* ! 

Jocky an* Jeamy an* Tammy oot there, 

A* i' the boatie gaed doon ; 
An* I'm ower auld to fish ony raair. 

An* I hinna the chance to droon. 

An* it's oh to win awa*, awa* ! etc 



An* Jeanie she grat to ease her hert, 

An* she easit hersel* awa* ; 
But I*m ower auld for the tears to stert, 

An* sae the sighs maun blaw. 

An* it*s oh to win awa*, awa* 1 etc. 



1, steer me hame whaur my Lord has steerit, 
)r I'm tired o* life's rockm* sea ; 



Lord, 

For 
An' dinna be lang, for I'm nearhan' fearit 

*At I'm 'maist ower auld to dee. 

An' it's oh to win awa', awa* ! etc. 



Again the stars and the sky were all, 
and there was no sound but the slight 
murmurous lipping of the slow swell 
against the edges of the planks. Then 
Clementina said, "Did you make that 
song, Malcolm?" 

" Whilk o* them, my leddy ? But it's a' 
ane : they're baith mine, sic as they are." 

"Thank you," she returned. 

" What for, my leddy ? " 

" For spealcing Scotch to me." 

" I beg your pardon, my lady. I forgot 
your ladyship was English." 

" Please forget it,*° she said. " But I 
thank vou for your songs too. It was the 
secona I wanted to know about : the first 
I was certain was your own. I did not 
know you could enter like that into the 
feelings of an old man.** 

" Why not, my lady ? I never can see 
living thing without asking it how it 
feels. Often and often, out here at such 
a time as this, have I tried to fancy my- 
self a herring caught by the gills in the 
net down below, instead of the fisherman in 
the boat above going to haul him out." 

" And did vou succeed ? " 

"Well, I fancy I came to understand 
as much of him as he does himself. It's 
a merry enough life down there. The 
flukes — plaice, you call them, my lady — 
bother me, I confess. I never contem- 
plate one without feeling as if I had been 
sat upon when I was a baby. But for an 
old man! Why, that's what I shall be 
myself one day, most likely, and it would 
be a shame not to know pretty nearly how 
/le felt — near enough, at least, to make a 
song about him." 

"And sha'n't you mind being an old 
man, then, Malcolm ? " 

"Not in the least, my lady. I shall 
mind nothing so long as I can trust in the 
Maker of me. If my faith in him should 
give way, why then there would be noth- 
mg worth minding either. I don't know 
but I should kill myself." 

" Malcolm ! " 

" Which is worse, my lady, to dis- 
trust God, or to think life worth having 
without him ? " 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



169 



"But one may hope in the midst of 
doubt, at least that is what Mr. Graham 
— and you — have tauo^ht me to do." 

" Yes, surely, my lady. I won't let any 
one beat me at that, if 1 can help it. And 
I think that so long as I kept my reason I 
should be able to cry out, as that grandest 
and most human of all the prophets did, 
•Though He slay me, yet will I trust in 
Him.' But would you not like to sleep, 
my lady ? " 

" No, Malcolm. I would much rather 
hear you talk. Could you not tell me a 
story now ? Lady Lossie mentioned one 
you once told her about an old castle 
somewhere not far from here." 

" Eh, my leddy," broke in Annie Mair, 
who had waked up while they were speak- 
ing. " I wuss ye wad gar him tell ye that 
story, for my man he's h'ard 'im tell 't, an' 
he savs it's unco gruesome : I wad fain 
hear ^t. Wauk up, Lizzy," she went on, 
in her eagerness waiting for no answer: 
" Ma'colm's gauin' to tell 's the tale o' the 
auld caslel o* Colonsay. It's out by 
yon'er, «y leddy — no that far frae the 
Deid Heid. Wauk up, Lizzy." 

" I'm no sleepin', Annie," said Lizzy, 
** though, like Ma'colm's auld man," she 
added with a sigh, " I wad whiles fain be." 

Now, there were reasons why Malcolm 
should not be unwilling to tell the strange 
wild story requested of him, and he com- 
menced it at once, but modified the Scotch 
of it considerably for the sake of the un- 
accustomed ears. When it was ended 
Qementina said nothing, Annie Mair said 




I a 



yer aith upo' that," re- 



in 

**Ye may tak 
joined Malcolm. 

It was a custom in Peter's boat never 
to draw the nets without a prayer, uttered 
now by one, now by another of the crew. 
Upon this occasion, whether it was in def- 
ference to Malcolm, who, as he well under- 
stood, did not like long prayers, or that 
the presence of Clementina exercised 
some restraint upon his spirit, out of the 
bows of the boat came now the solemn 
voice of its master, bearing only this one 
sentence : " O Thoo, wha didst tell thy 
dissiples to cast the net upo' the side 
whaur swam the fish, gien it be Thy wull 
'at we catch the nicht, lat's catch : gien 
it binna Thy wull, lat's no catch. Haul 
awa', my laads." 

Up sprang the men and went each to 
his place, and straight a torrent of gleam- 
ing fish was pouring in over the gunwale 



of the boat. Such a take it was ere the 
last of the nets was drawn as the oldest of 
them had seldom seen. Thousands of 
fish there were that had never got into the 
meshes at all. 

" I cannot understand it," said Clemen- 
tina. " There are multitudes more fish 
than there are meshes in the nets to catch 
them : if they are not caught, why do they 
not swim away?" 

** Because they are drowned, my lady,'* 
answered Malcolm. 

" What do you mean by that ? How 
can you drown a fish ? " 

" You may call it suffocated if you like, 
my lady: it is all the same. You have 
read of panic-stricken people, when a 
church or a theatre is on fire, rushing to 
the door all in a heap and crowding each 
other to death ? It is something like that 
with the fish. They are swimming along 
in a great shoal, yards thick ; and when 
the first can get no farther, that does not 
at once stop the rest, any more than it 
would in a crowd of people : those that 
are behind come pressing up into every 
corner where there is room till they are 
one dense mass. Then they push and 
push to get forward, and can't get through, 
and the rest come still crowding on behind, 
and above and below, till a multitude of 
them are jammed so tight against each 
other that they can't open their gills ; and 
even if thev could, there would not be air 
enough for them. You've seen the gold- 
fish in the swan-basin, my lady, how they 
open and shut their gills constantly : that's 
their way of getting air out of the water 
by some wonderful contrivance nobody 
understands, for they need breath just as 
much as we do ; and to close their gi.ls is 
to them the same as closing a man's mouth 
and nose. That's how the most of those 
herrings are taken." 

All were now ready to seek the harbor. 
A light westerly wind was still blowing, 
with the aid of which, heavy-laden, they 
crept slowly to the land. As she lay snug 
and warm, with th'e cool breath of the sea 
on her face, a half sleep came over Clem- 
entina, and she half dreamed that she was 
voyaging in a ship of the air, through in- 
finite regions of space, with a destination 
too glorious to be known. The herring- 
boat was a living splendor of strength and 
speed, its sails were as the wings of a will 
in place of the instruments of a force, 
ancl softly as mightily it bore them through 
the charmed realms of dreamland toward 
the ideal of the soul. And yet the her- 
ring-boat but crawled over the still waters 
with its load of fish, as the harvest-wagon 



170 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



creeps over the field with its piled-up 
sheaves ; and she who imagined its won- 
drous speed was the only one who did not 
desire it should move taster. No word 
passed between her and Malcolm all their 
homeward way. Each was brooding over 
the night and its joy that enclosed them 
together, and hoping for that which was 
yet to be shaken from the lap of the com- 
ing time. 

Also, Clementina had in her mind a 
scheme for attempting what Malcolm had 
requested of her : the next day must see 
it carried into effect, and ever and anon, 
like a cold blast of doubt invading the 
bliss of confidence, into the heart of that 
sea-borne peace darted the thought that if 
she failed she must leave at once for En- 
gland, for she would not again meet Lif tore. 

CHAPTER LXVII. 
SHORE. 

At last they glided once more through 
the stony jaws of the harbor, as if return- 
ing again to the earth from a sojourn in 
the land of the disembodied. When 
Clementina's foot touched the shore she 
felt like one waked out of a dream, from 
whom yet the dream has not departed, but 
keeps floating about him, waved in thinner 
and yet thinner streams from the wings of 
the vanishing sleep. It seemed almost as 
if her spirit, instead of having come back 
to the world of its former abode, had been 
borne across the parting waters and landed 
on the shore of the immortals. There 
was the ghostlike harbor of the spirit-land, 
the water gleaming betwixt its dark walls, 
one solitary boat motionless upon it, the 
men moving about like shadows in the star 
twilight. Here stood three women and a 
man on the shore, and save the stars no 
light shone, and from the land came no 
sound of life. Was it the dead of the 
night or a day that had no sun.** It was 
not dark, but the light was rayless. Or 
rather it was as if she had gained the 
power of seeing in the dark. Suppressed 
sleep wove the stuff of a dream around 
her, and the stir at her heart kept it alive 
with dream-forms. Even the voice of 
Peter's Annie, saying, " I s' bide for my 
man. Gude-nicht, my leddy," did not 
break the charm. Her heart shaped that 
also into tlie dream. Turning away with 
Malcolm and Lizzy, she passed along the 
front of the Seaton. How still, how dead, 
how empty like cenotaphs, all the cottages 
looked ! How the sea, which lay like a 
watcher at their doors, murmured in its 



sleep 1 Arrived at the entrance to her 
own close, Lizzy next bade them good- 
night, and Clementina and Malcolm were 
left. 

And now drew near the full power, the 
.culmination of the mounting enchantment, 
of the night for Malcolm. When once 
the Scaurnose people should have passed 
them, they would be alone — alone as in 
the spaces between the stars. There 
would not be a living soul on the shore for 
hours. From the harbor the nearest way 
to the house was by the sea-gate, but 
where was the haste with the lovely night 
around them, private as a dream shared 
only by two ? Besides, to get in by that 
they would have had to rouse the cantan- 
kerous Bykes, and what a jar would not 
that bring into the music of the silence ! 
Instead, therefore, of turning up by the 
side of the stream where it crossed the 
shore, he took Clementina once again in his 
arms unforbidden and carried her over. 
Then the long sands lay open to their feet. 
Presently they heard the Scaurnose party 
behind them, coming audibly, merrily on. 
As by a common resolve tney turned to 
the left, and crossing the end 01 the Boar's 
Tail, resumed their former direction, with 
the dune now between them and the sea. 
The voices passed on the other side, and 
they heard them slowly merge into the 
inaudible. At length, after an interval of 
silence, on the westerly air came one 
quiver of lauditer, by which Malcolm 
knew his friends were winding up the red 
path to the top of the cliff. And now the 
shore was bare of presence, bare of sound 
save the soft, fitful rush of the risinjj tide. 
But behind the long sandhill, for all they 
could see of the sea, they might have been 
in the heart of a continent. 

" Who would imagine the ocean so near 
us, my lady?" said Malcolm after they 
had walked for some time without word 
spoken. 

" Who can tell what may be near us ? " 
she returned. 

** True, my lady. Our future is near us, 
holding thousands of things unknown. 
Hosts of thinking beings with endless 
myriads of thoughts may be around us. 
What a joy to know that, of all things and 
all thoughts, God is nearest to us — so 
near that we cannot see him, but far be- 
yond seeing him, can know of him infi- 
nitely ! " 

As he spoke they came opposite the 
tunnel, but he turned from it and they 
ascended the dune. As their heads rose 
over the top, and the sky-night above and 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



xyi 



the sea-night beneath rolled themselves 
out and rushed silently together, Malcolm 
said, as if thinking aloud, ^* Thus shall we 
meet death and the unknown, and the new 
that breaks from the bosom of the invisi- 
ble will be better than the old upon which 
the gates close behind us. The Son of 
man is content with my future, and I am 
content." 

There was a peace in the words that 
troubled Clementina : be wanted no more 
than he had, this cold, imperturbable, de- 
vout fisherman. She did not see that it 
was the confidence of having all things 
that held his peace rooted. From the 
platform of the swivel they looked abroad 
over the sea. Far north in the east lurked 
a suspicion of dawn, which seemed, while 
they gazed upon it, to "languish into 
life," and the sea was a shade less dark 
than when they turned from it to go be- 
hind the dune. They descended a few 
paces and halted again. 

"Did your ladyship ever see the sun 
rise ? " asked Malcolm. 

" Never in open country," she answered. 

" Then stay and see it now, my lady. 
He'll rise just over yonder, a little nearer 
this way than that light from under his 
eyelids. A more glorious chance you 
could not have. And when he rises, just 
observe, one minute after he is up, how 
like a dream all you have been in to-night 
will look. It is to me strange, even to 
awfulness, how many different phases of 
things, and feelings aoout them, and moods 
of life and consciousness, God can tie up 
in the bundle of one world, with one hu- 
man soul to carry it." 

Clementina slowly sank on the sand of 
the slope, and like lovely sphinx of north- 
ern desert gazed in immovable silence out 
on the yet more northern sea. Malcolm 
took his place a little below, leaning on his 
elbow — for the slope was steep — and 
looking up at her. Thus they waited the 
sunrise. 

Was it minutes or only moments passed 
in that silence, whose speech was the soft 
ripple of the sea on the sand ? Neither 
could have answered the question. At 
length said Malcolm, " I think of chang- 
ing my service, my lady." 

" Indeed, Malcolm ! " 

"Yes, my lady. My — mistress does 
not like to turn me away, but she is tired 
of me, and does not want me any 
longer." 

"But you would never think of finally 
forsaking a fisherman's life for that of a 
servant, surely, Malcolm ? " 

"What would become of Kelpie, my 



lady ? " rejoined Malcolm, smiling to him- 
self. 

" Ah ! " said Clementina bewildered, " I 
had not thought of her. But you cannot 
take her with you," she addea, coming a 
little to her senses. 

" There is nobody about the place who 
could, or rather who would, do anything 
with her. They would sell her. I have 
enough to buy her, and perhaps some- 
body might not object to the encumbrance, 
but hire me and her together. Vour 
groom wants a coachman's place, my 
lady." 

" Oh, Malcolm I do vou mean you would 
be my groom ? " criea Clementina, press- 
ing her palms together. 

"If you would have me, my lady; but 
I have heard you say you would have none 
but a married man." 

" But, Malcolm, don't you know anybody 

that would Could you not find some 

one — some lady — that — I mean, why 
shouldn't you be a married man?" 

" For a very good and to me rather sad 
reason, my lady : the only woman I could 
marry or should ever be able to marry 
would not have me. She is very kind and 

very noble, but It is preposterous, the 

thing is too preposterous : I dare not have 
the presumption to ask her." 

Malcolm's voice trembled as he spoke, 
and a few moments' pause followed, during 
which he could not lift his eyes. The 
whole heaven seemed pressing down their 
lids. The breath which he modelled into 
words seemed to come in little billows. 

But his words had raised a storm in 
Clementina's bosom. A cry broke from 
her as if driven forth by pain. She called 
up all the energy of her nature and stilled 
herself to speak. The voice that came 
was little more than a sob-scattered whis- 
per, but to her it seemed as if all the 
world must hear. " Oh, Malcolm," she 
panted, " I ivi// try to be good and wise. 
Don't marry anybody else — anybody^ I 
mean ; but come with Kelpie and be my 
groom, and wait and see if I don't grow 
better." 

Malcolm le«iped to his feet and threw 
himself at hers. He had heard but in 
part, and he must know all. " My lady," 
he said with intense quiet, " Kelpie and I 
will be your slaves. Take me for fisher- 
man, groom, what you will. I offer the 
whole sum of service that is in me." He 
kissed her feet. " My lady, I would put 
your feet on my head," he went on, " only 
then what should I do when I see my Lord 
and cast myself before him ? " 

But Clementinai again her own to givey 



lya 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



rose quickly, and said with all the dtgnitv 
born of her inward grandeur, " Rise, Mal- 
colm : you misunderstand me." 

Malcolm rose abashed, but stood erect 
before her, save that his head was bowed, 
for his heart was sunk in dismay. Then 
slowly, gently, Clementina knelt before 
him. Be was bewildered, and thought she 
was going to pray. In sweet, clear, un- 
shaken tones, for she feared nothing now, 
she said, ** Malcolm, I am not worthy of 
you. But take me — take my very soul if 
you will, for it is yours." 

Now Malcolm saw that he had no right 
to raise a kneeling lady : all he could do was 
to kneel beside her. When people kneel, 
they lift up their hearts ; and the creating 
Heart of their joy was forgotten of neither. 
And well for them, for the love where God 
is not, be the lady lovely as Cordelia, the 
man gentle as Philip Sidney, will fare as 
the overkept manna. 

When the huge tidal wave from the 
ocean of infinite delight had broken at last 
upon the shore of the finite, and with- 
drawn again into the deeps, leaving every 
cistern brimming, every fountain overflow- 
ing, the two entranced souls opened their 
bodily eyes, looked at each other, rose, 
and stood hand in hand, speechless. 

"Ah, my lady ! " said Malcolm at 
length, "what is to become of this deli- 
cate smoothness in my great rough hand ? 
Will it not be hurt ? " 

" You don't know bow strong it is, Mal- 
colm. There ! " 

** I can scarcely feel it with my hand, 
my lady : it all goes through to my heart. 
It shall lie in mme as the diamond in the 
rock." 

" No, no, Malcolm ! Now that I am 
going to be a fisherman's wife, it must be 
a strong hand — it must work. What 
homage shall you require of me, Malcolm ? 
What will you have me do to rise a little 
nearer your level ? Shall I give away 
lands and money ? And shall 1 live witn 
you in the Seaton ? or will you come and 
fish at Wastbeach ? " 

" Forgive me, my lady : I can't think 
about things now — even with you in them. 
There is neither past nor future to me now 
— only this one eternal morning. Sit here, 
and look up, Lady Clementina: see all 
those worlds : something in me constantly 
says that I shall know every one of them 
one day — that they are all but rooms in 
the house of my spirit ; that is, the house 
of our Father. Let us not now, when 
your love makes me twice eternal, talk of 
times and places. Come, let us fancy our 
selves two blessed spirits lying full in the 



sight and light of our God, — as indeed 
what else are we ? — warming our hearts 
in his presence and peace, and that we 
have but to rise and spread our wings to 
soar aloft and find — what shall it be, my 
lady ? Worlds upon worlds ? No, no. 
What are worlds upon worlds in infinite 
show until we have seen the face of the 
Son of man?" 

A silence fell. But he resumed : " Let 
us imagine our earthly life behind us, our 
hearts clean, love all in all. But that sends 
me back to the now. My lady, I know I 
shall never love you aright until you have 
made me perfect. When the face of the 
least lovely of my neighbors needs but 
appear to rouse in my heart a divine ten- 
derness, then it must be that I shall love 
you better than now. Now, alas ! I am 
so pervious to wrong ! so fertile of resent- 
ments and indignations ! You must cure 
me, my divine Clemency. Am I a poor 
lover to talk, this first glorious hour, of 
anything but my lady and my love ? Ah ! 
but let it excuse me that this love is no 
new thing to me. It is a very old love ; I 
have loved you a thousand years. I love 
every atom of your being, every thought 
that can harbor in your soul, and I am 
jealous of hurting your blossoms with the 
over-jubilant winds of that very love. I 
would therefore ever behold you folded in 
the atmosphere of the Love eternal. My 
lady, if I were to talk of your beauty, I 
should but offend you, for you would think 
I raved and spoke not the words of truth 
and soberness. But how often have I not 
cried to the God who breathed the beauty 
into you that it might shine out of you, to 
save my soul from the tempest of its own 
delight therein ! And now I am like one 
that has caught an angel in his net, and 
fears to come too nigh, lest fire should 
flash from the eyes of the startled splen- 
dor, and consume the net and him who 
holds it. But I will not rave, because I 
would possess in grand peace that which 
I lay at your feet. I am yours, and would 
be worthy of your moonlight calm." 

" Alas ! I am beside you but a block of 
marble," said Clementina. " You are so 
eloquent, my " 

"New groom," suggested Malcolm 
gently. 

Clementina smiled. " But my heart is 
so full," she went on, " that I cannot think 
the filmiest thought. I hardly know that 
I feel : I only know that I want to weep." 

** Weep, then, my word ineffable ! " cried 
Malcolm, and laid himself again at her 
feet, kissed them, and was silent. 

He was but a fisher-poet — no courtier, 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



173 



DO darling of society, no dealer in fine 
speeches, no clerk of compliments. All 
the words he had were the living blossoms 
of thought rooted in feeling. His pure 
clear heart was as a crystal cup, through 
which shone the red wine of his love. To 
himself, Malcolm stammered as a dumb 
roan, the string of whose tongue has but 
just been loosed : to Clementina his 
speech was as the song of the Lady to 
Comus, "divine enchanting ravishment." 
The God of truth is surely present at 
every such marriage-feast of two radiant 
spirits. Their joy was that neither had 
foiled the hope of the other. 

And so the herring-boat bad indeed car- 
ried Clementina over into paradise, and 
this night of the world was to her a twi- 
light of heaven. God alone can tell what 
delights it is possible for him to give to 
the pure in heart who shall one day be- 
hold him. Like two that had diecl and 
found each other, they talked until speech 
rose into silence — they smiled until the 
dews which the smiles had sublimed 
claimed their turn and descended in tears. 

All at once they became aware that an 
eye was upon them. It was the sun. He 
was ten degrees up the slope of the sky, 
and they had never seen him rise. With 
the sun came a troublous thought, for 
with the sun came " a world of men." 
Neither they nor the simple fisher-folk, 
their friends, had thought of the thing, but 
now at length it occurred to Clementina 
that she would rather not walk up to the 
door of Lossie House with Malcolm at 
this hour of the morning. Neither could 
she well appear alone. 

Ere she had spoken Malcolm rose. 
" You won't mind being left, my lady," he 
said, " for a quarter of an hour or so, will 
you ? I want to bring Lizzy to walk home 
with you." 

He went, and Clementina sat alone on 
the dune in a reposeful rapture, to which 
the sleeplessness of the night gave a cer- 
tain additional intensity and richness and 
strangeness. She watched the great 
strides of her fisherman as he walked 
along the sands, and she seemed not to 
be left behind, but to go with him every 
step. The tide was again falling, and the 
sea shone and sparkled and danced with 
life, and the wet sand gleamed, and a soft 
air blew on her cheek, and the lordly sun 
was mounting higher and higher, and a 
lark over her head was sacrificing all 
nature in his song ; and it seemed as if 
Malcolm were stiU speaking strange, half- 



intelligible, altogether lovely things in her 
ears. She felt a little weary, and laid her 
head down upon her arm to listen more at 
her ease. 

Now, the lark had seen and heard all, 
and was telling it again to the universe, 
only in dark sayings which none but them- 
selves could understand : therefore it is 
no wonder that, as she listened, his sone 
melted into a dream, and she slept. And 
the dream was lovely as dream needs be, 
but not lovelier than the wakeful night 
She opened her eyes, calm as any cradled 
child, and there stood her fisherman. 

" I have been explaining to Lizzy, my 
lady," he said, " that your ladyship vvould 
rather have her company up to the door 
than mine. Lizzy is to be trusted, my 
lady." 

" ' Deed, my leddy," said Lizzy, " Ma'- 
colm's been ower guid to me, no to gar 
me du onything he wad hae o' me. I can 
haud my tongue whan I like, my leddy. 
An' dinna doobt my thouchts, my leddy, 
for I ken Ma'colm as weel's ye du yerser, 
my leddy." 

While she was speaking Clementina 
rose, and they went straight to the door in 
the bank. Through the tunnel and the 
young wood and the dew and the morning 
odors, along the lovely paths, the three 
walked to the house together. And oh, 
how the larks of the earth and the larks 
of the soul sang for two of them! and 
how the burn ran with music, and the air 
throbbed with sweetest life ! while the 
breath of God made a little sound as of a 
going now and then in the tops of the fir- 
trees, and the sun shone his brightest and 
best, and all nature knew that the heart 
of God is the home of his creatures. 

When they drew near the house Mal- 
colm left them. After they had rung a 
good many times the door was opened 
by the housekeeper, looking very proper 
and just a little scandalized. 

"Please, Mrs. Courthope," said Lady 
Clementina, "will you give orders that 
when this youn^ woman comes to see me 
to-day she shall oe shown up to my room ? " 

Then she turned to Lizzy ana thanked 
her for her kindness, and they parted — 
Lizzy to her baby, and Clementina to yet 
a dream or two. Long before her dreams 
were sleeping ones, however, Malcolm 
was out in the bay in the Psyche's dinghy 
catching mackerel: some should be for 
his grandfather, some for Miss Horn, 
some for Mrs. Courthope, and some for 
Mrs. Crathie. 



174 



A LEAF OF EASTERN HISTORY. 



From The Fortnightly Review. 
A LEAF OF EASTERN HISTORY. 

Introductory Note. — In the month 
of June, 185s, M. Ferdinand de Lesseps 
visited Enj^land for the purpose of induc- 
ing the British government to withdraw 
their opposition to the proposed construc- 
tion of the Suez Canal. He had been for 
some years the French consul-general in 
Cairo. His father had filled that post be- 
fore, and it was mainly by the advice of the 
elder M. de Lesseps that the sultan se- 
lected Mchemet Ali to be pasha of Egypt 

Mehemet Ali reposed great confidence 
in M. Ferdinand de Lesseps, and entrust- 
ed to him in a great degree the education 
of his favorite son Said Pasha, who con- 
sequently was prepared to view with favor 
M. de Lesseps* important scheme. A fir- 
man was submitted to the sultan, who, 
however, delayed its ratification until the 
formal consent of England could be ob- 
tained, and M. de Lesseps was empow- 
ered by the French government to nego- 
tiate with the members of the British 
cabinet. M. Thiers gave him a letter to 
Mr. Senior, in whose house he became a 
frequent and a welcome guest. 

A commission, consisting chiefly of en- 
gineers from various countries, was ap- 
pointed to proceed to Egypt in the follow- 
ing winter, and Mr. Senior (who, unlike 
most of his countrymen, had believed from 
the first that the proposed canal would 
rather forward than impede the interests 
of England) was invited, with three or four 
other personal friends of M. de Lesseps, 
to join the party. They were royally 
entertained by the viceroy. The best apart- 
ments in the best hotels were put every- 
where at their disposal, carriages, camels, 
and running footmen, were always in 
readiness for them, and a small steamer 
conveyed the whole party up the Nile. Ac- 
cording to his practice when abroad, Mr. 
Senior kept an elaborate journal, which 
still retains its interest, for the East does 
not materially change. This journal con- 
tains records of his conversations with 
people of all nations ; a fact well known, 
for on one page he writes : "The viceroy 
said to Ruyssenaer after I left him, ^J^'ai 
donni d, AT. Senior une belle page pour 
son journal? " Among his interlocutors 
there was none more interesting and in- 
structive than Hekekyan Bey, an Arme- 
nian, who had in early youth been sent by 
Mehemet Ali to be educated in Europe. 
Throughout the reign of that pasha he 
and his family had retained great influ- 
ence : his brother-in-law, Kosrew Bey, 



being first dragoman, another brother-in- 
law, Artim Bey, prime minister, and 
Hekekyan himself director of the Ecole 
des Arts et Mitiers. Abbas, the next 
pasha, hated his grandfather's friends, 
and dismissed them all. In 1855 they 
were still out of office. 

In 1862 Hekekyan Bey came to En- 
gland with his wife and his son to see the 
second Exhibition. He was at that time 
an exceedingly handsome man, apparently 
about fifty, tall, and rather like an Italian 
from the north of Italy. He was full of 
animation and good-nature, and his man- 
ners and conversation were most agree- 
able. He spoke both French and Ena:lish 
perfectly well. His wife spoke nothing 
but Arabic, so it was difficult to get on 
with her. On one occasion she put on, as 
a favor, her Eastern dress. It was com- 
posed of black satin, and, it must be 
owned, was far from becoming to an 
elderly lady ; but those were the days of 
crinoline — in 1877 it would probably not 
appear so extraordinary. 

It is difficult to make selections when 
there is so much that is interesting and 
instructive. This story of Mehemet Ali, 
related by Hekekyan, is perhaps the most 
striking of the following extracts. 

Extract from Mr. Senior's Journal, 

" Mr. and Mrs. Lieder, Hekekyan Bey 
and his wife, and Mr. Bruce drank tea 
with us. 

" It is a remarkable indication of Orien- 
tal morals that of our four Egyptian 
guests, two, Mrs. Lieder and Hekekyan, 
believed themselves to have drunk poi- 
soned coffee. In each case it was 
detected by its peculiar and extreme bitter- 
ness, and not enough taken to do serious 
mischief. Mrs. Lieder received hers at 
Nazleh Hanem's ; Hekekyan's was given 
to him at Mencele Pacha's. It was in 
1840. He was at that time out of favor 
with Mehemet Ali : his boldness of con- 
versation and perhaps his boldness of 
character, partly natural and partly ac- 
quired in England, unfit him for Eastern 
courts. He has seldom continued long in 
favor or long in disgrace. His talents, 
knowledge, and industry force him into 
employment, and some unguarded speech 
or the performance of some duty offensive 
to the master, or to his minister, or to his 
cook, or to his barber, turns him out: 
when they cannot do without him he is 
recalled. 

"*In 1840,* he said to us, * after the 
bombardment of Acre, some weeks passed 
without any news from Ibrahim Pasha, or 



A LEAF OF EASTERN HISTORY. 



I7S 



from his army in Syria. A strong suspi- 
cion arose that he had made his peace 
with the sultan at his father's expense, and 
that Mehemet All's reign and life were 
drawing to a close. 

"* I was then the engineer charged with 
the defences of the coast. We were ex- 
pecting an attack from Sir Charles Napier, 
and I had been to Rosetta to inspect the 
batteries. It was on a tempestuous night 
that I returned to Alexandria, and went to 
the palace on the shore of the former island 
of Pharos to make my report to Mehemet 
Ali. 

" * The halls and passages which I used 
to find full of Mamelukes and officers, 
strutting about in the fulness of their con- 
tempt for a Christian, were empty; without 
encountering a single attendant I reached 
his room overlooking the sea ; it was dim- 
ly lighted by a few candles of bad Egyp- 
tian wax with enormous untrimmed wicks. 
Here, at the end of his divan, I found him 
rolled up in a sort of ball, solitary, motion- 
less, apparently absorbed in thought. The 
waves were breaking heavily on the mole, 
and I expected every instant the case- 
ments to be blown in. The roar of wind 
and 8ea was almost awful, but he did not 
seem conscious of it. 

" * I stood before him silent. Suddenly 
he said, as if speaking to himself, ** I think 
I can trust Ibrahim." Again he was silent 
for some time, and then desired me to 
fetch Motus Bey, his admiral. I found 
him, and brought him to the viceroy. 
Neither of them spoke, until the viceroy, 
after looking at him steadily for some min- 
utes said to me, ** He is drunk ; take him 
away." I did so ; and so ended my visit, 
without making any report.' 

*** Was Motus drunk?' I asked. 

" * He was drunk,' answered Hekekyan, 
* as all the naval oflicers were ; they ex- 
pected to be sent out to fight Napier, and 
kept drinking to keep up their spirits. 

** * The viceroy,' he added, * was not 
pleased at my having witnessed his emo- 
tion or his neglected state ; but what com- 
pleted my disgrace was my having alluded 
some months after to the events of that 
night. He immediately sent me off to 
Cairo, on a trifling errand about the forti- 
fications of the citadel, and kept me there 
for three months. 

'* * At the end of that time I received a 
summons from Meneele Pasha, the man 
who has just returned from Eupatoria, 
who was the minister of war. He placed 
me by him on his divan and gave me a 
pipe, but said nothing. Then came coffee. 
1 just sipped mine/ and found it totally 



unlike anything that I had ever tasted be- 
fore ; it was nauseous and intensely bitter. 
I gave it back to the servant. . Meneele 
looked hard at me, but said nothing. I 
sat a few minutes longer, waiting for him 
to tell me why he had sent for me, and 
hearing nothing, went away, without a 
word having passed between us. Half an 
hour after Mehemet Ali arrived from 
Alexandria at the citadel. 

" * I cannot but suspect that I had be- 
come disag:reeable, and that he had direct- 
ed Meneele to dispose of me before his 
return to Cairo. It certainly seemed that 
the only purpose for which Meneele sum- 
moned me was that I might drink that 
cup of coffee.' 

** * But,' I said, * if Mehemet Ali wished 
to remove you, might he not have had 
recourse to a more certain expedient ? ' 

" * There were objections,' answered 
Hekekyan, *in my case to the use of the 
dagger or the cord. I was not then as I 
am now, alone ; one of my brothers-in-law 
was his prime minister, another was his 
first interpreter. It would have been in- 
convenient to part with them, and they 
certainly would have quitted him. 

** * He wished me to die, but he did not 
wish to be suspected of having killed me. 
I believe that it was for the same pur- 
pose that he sent me a few months after, 
at the beginning of the hot season, to pass 
some months in the Southern Desert ; and 
I am not sure that he did not take means 
to increase the dangers of the desert. The 
only place at which I halted was Berenice, 
in the Red Sea, where I spent a month, 
time enough for my sojourn there to be 
known at Cairo. A few days after I had 
left Berenice a party of armed Bishareem 
arrived there, inquired anxiously for me, 
and finding that I was gone followed me ; 
luckily I left Komsko on the Nile before 
them ; and in my boat I was safe, for the 
Bishareem are not aquatic' 

" * Are they coarse or scientific poison- 
ers,' I asked,'* in Eg)^pt?' 

"* Scientific,' answered Lieder. * The 
poisons are vegetable, and are not often 
intended to produce an immediate result, 
or even to operate by a single dose ; they 
undermine the health by frequent repeti- 
tion. The custom of giving coffee to 
every visitor affords great facilities to 
what may be called dietetic poisioning. 
In Europe, unless you live in the same 
house with a man, it is difficult to poison 
him unless he dines with you, and even 
then, without accomplices. The accom- 
plices cannot be easily obtained, and they 
would possess a dangerous secret, whicn 



176 

would make them your masters. You 
seldom can repeat the dose, it must there- 
fore be .violent. The fact of his having 
dined with you would be easily proved, 
and his death by poison connected with it. 
The poisonings of Europe therefore are 
family poisonings. 

"* In Egypt a man may drink coffee in 
the course of the morning at ten different 
houses. A single accomplice is all that is 
necessary ; there is no difficulty in prevail- 
ing on him to accept the office ; it is as 
natural to him as any other service. He 
does not think much about it, and is not 
likely to talk about it. If he does, you 

Coison him, or have him strangled and 
ury him in your garden. You run little 
risk by doing so ; nothing that happens in 
a man's house is known. For most pur- 
poses, indeed for all purposes, except 
opposing the will of the pashas, a man's 
house is his castle in Egypt more really 
than it is in England. The reverence 
paid to the hareem extends to everything 
that is under the same roof. The Egyp- 
tian thinks himself well recompensed for 
being a slave abroad by being absolute at 
home. He would not accept freedom or 
security for himself if the condition were 
that it should extend to his household.* 

" * In this country,' said Hekekvan, * the 
disappearance of an unprotectea man is 
not noticed. If I were to walk out to- 
morrow and not to return, no one except 
Madame Hekekyan would think about it. 
She would be alarmed the first night, and 
more so the second, and on the third she 
would give me up for lost. But she 
would infer that I had been removed by 
the higher powers, and that if she made 
complaints or even inquiries, she would 
share my fate ; and in a short time it 
would be forgotten, at least among the 
Turks, that Hekekyan Bey had ever ex- 
isted. 

" * Mr. Lieder,' he added, * says truly 
that our poisonings are seldom rapia. 
When the existence of a man has become 
offensive to the master he is impover 
ished, his villages are resumed, claims 
against him are countenanced, it is whis- 
pered about that it is imprudent to visit 
him or to receive him, he soon finds him- 
self alone as if he were in the desert A 
Mussulman who has no resources, who 
neither sports, nor gambles, nor converses, 
nor reads, nor writes, nor walks, nor rides, 
nor travels, soon smokes himself into dys- 
pepsia. If he be, what few Mussulmans, 
are, a man of quick sensibility and self- 
respect, he is also oppressed and irritated 



A LEAF OF EASTERN HISTORY. 



by the intolerable feeling of wrong. Then 
perhaps he is suddenly recalled. He is 
again in favor, he is soon to be again in 
power; at every visit that he pays to the* 
palace or to one of the divans, he gets a 
cup of coffee slightly impregnated; the 
moral and physical excitement combine. 
His death follows an illness which has not 
been scandalously short' 

" * The remark,' said Lieder, * that Orien- 
tals are not to be judged according to Eu- 
ropean notions, is so obvious that it has 
become trite ; on no point is the difference 
between the two minds more striking than 
in the respect for life. 

" * The European cares nothing for brute 
life ; he destroys the lower animals with- 
out scruple whenever it suits his con- 
venience, his pleasure, or his caprice ; he 
shoots his favorite horse and his favorite 
dog as soon as they become too old for 
service. 

" * The Mussulman preserves the lives of 
the lower animals solicitously. 'Though 
he considers the dog impure, and never 
makes a friend of him, he thinks it sinful 
to kill him, and allows the neighborhood 
and even the streets of his town to be in- 
fested by packs of masterless dogs whom 
we should get rid of in London or Berlin 
in one day. The beggar does not venture 
to destroy his vermin, he puts them ten- 
derly on the ground. There are hospitals 
in Cairo for superannuated cats, where 
they are fed at the public expense. But 
to human life he is utterly indifferent : he 
extinguishes it with much less scruple than 
that with which we shoot a horse past 
his work.* 

" * Abbas,' said Hekekyan, * when a boy, 
had his pastry-cook bastinadoed to death. 
Mehemet Ali mildly reproved him for it, 
as we should correct a child for killing a 
butterfly; he explained to his little grand- 
son that such things ought not to be done 
without a motive.' 

" * When Nazleh Hanem,' I asked, 
* burnt her slave to death for giving her 
cold coffee, did her father interfere ? * 

*• * No,' said Hekekyan, * he could not 
That took place in a hareem. The mur- 
dering the me.ssenger at Shoobra is an- 
other instance : it would have cost little to 
shut up the poor old man until any danger 
of his telling from whom he came was 
over; but it was simpler to drown him. 
Perhaps, however, in that case Mehemet 
Ali merely followed instructions which he 
might have thought it dishonorable to dis- 
obey. There was probably at the bottom 
of tlie letter some mark indicating how the 



A LEAF OF EASTERN HISTORY. 



177 



person who brought it was to be disposed 
of, as we write, " Burn this note as soon 
as you have read it." ' 

** * That incident/ I said, * is mentioned 
bv Cadoleone and Barrault in their history 
of the East in 1839 ^^^ i^4o> ^"^ *^^y 
affirm that the messenger was drowned 
for having refused to disclose the name of 
his employer.' 

" * That is a mistake,' said Hekekyan. 
* I was the only person present when 
Mehemet Ali received the messenger. 
He was obviously a man of the lowest 
class, who would not have refused to dis- 
close anything. Mehemet Ali asked no 
questions, and indeed had none to ask.'" 

Mr. Senior heard the sequel to this 
story some time afterwards at Alexandria 
from Artim Bey, Mehemet Ali's prime 
minister : — 

" I asked him if he recollected the night 
described to me by Hekekyan when 
Mehemet Ali lay alone in an empty palace 
thinking over the chances of Ibrahim's 
fidelity. 

" ' Certainly I do,' he answered, * and I 
recollect the day that followed it. Napier 
appeared off the old port and sent in a 
letter requiring the viceroy to surrender 
the Turkjsh fleet, and to' submit to the 
award of the four powers.' 

" * What was his force ? * I asked. 

" * I forget,' answered Artim : * five or 
six ships. We had about eighteen sail of 
the line and twenty frigates — not less 
than fifty ships — but we could not rely 
on the Turkish sailors. They would have 
joined the English if we had allowed the 
ships to quit the port, nor could we indeed 
trust the Egyptians, and as for the artil- 
lerymen they had spiked the guns on the 
batteries. Mehemet Ali was still in his 
mood of resistance. I took to him Na- 
pier's letter. He asked fiercely, " What 
does the Englishman say.**" "Let the 
letter be translated to you," I answered. 
This was done. He rose from his divan 
and began to walk up and down the room, 
exclaiming, " I will not give up the fleet, 
they may burn it if they can, they may 
burn Alexandria, they may drive me out 
of Egypt and I will live a hadji in Mecca; 
but they shall not drive me out of Egypt, 
or even out of Alexandria. I will fight 
until further resistance is impossible. I 
will make my last stand in the powder 
magazine, and when all is lost,y<r sauteraiP 
" This may be well," I said, •* in your High- 
ness's hi^h position, but it will not suit 
your subjects. Si vous sautez^ vous 
sau teres seuW* 

LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 948 



" * He came up to me in a fury, and I 
own that I trembled, and that my knees 
shook. I moved back, and he advanced 
until I was close to the wall. Then we 
stood face to face. He looked at me for 
some time, probably considering whether 
he should give a sign for my being stran- 
gled. At last he said, " Send an order to 
the Englishman to come on shore to me." 

" * I wrote to Napier to say " that the 
viceroy thought that the matter could be 
best arranged in a personal interview, and 
to request that he would visit his High- 
ness at the palace." The next day Napier 
came. Mehemet Ali had had a night to 
reflect, and he had profited by it. He 
seized him by both hands, placed him on 
his right side on the corner of the divan, 
gave him diamond-topped pipes, and coffee 
in gold cups, and acceded without remon- 
strance to all his demands, and in the same 
evening Napier was wandering alone over 
the bazaars of Alexandria in a round hat. 
I offered him a tchaous^ but he said he 
had objects with which an attendant would 
interfere. 

"* Mehemet Ali,' he continued, *was 
not a safe master, but he was an agree- 
able one. He was very generous ; he had 
a quick and correct appreciation of char- 
acter, and his conversation was charming. 

"/Although he did not learn to read 
until he was forty-seven, he had more lit- 
erary taste than any Turk that I have 
known. He had every book about Napo- 
leon that he could find translated for him, 
and read them or had them read to him 
with avidity. He made me translate the 
" Esprit des Lois^^ and read it with great 
interest. Of course I rather paraphrased 
than translated. He would not have un- 
derstood Montesquieu's terse epigrams. 

" * He told me one day that he nad read 
much about Machiavelli's " Principe^'^ and 
begged me to translate it for him. I set 
to work, and gave him the first day ten 
pages, and the next ten pages more, and 
ten more the third ; but on the fourth he 
stopped me. " 1 have read," he said, " all 
that you have given me of Machiavelli. I 
did not find much that was new in your 
first ten pages, but I hoped that it might 
improve ; but the next ten were not better, 
and the last are mere commonplace. I 
see that I have nothing to learn from 
Machiavelli. I know many more tricks 
than he knew ; you need not translate any 
more of him." 

" * Though passionate he was not cruel, 
nor indifferent to human suffering. I went 
with him one day to one of his farms. He 
found that his manager had been buying 



straw. He was very angry. " A farm," 
he said, " ought to furnish its own straw, 
there must have been peculation or mis- 
management.** He ordered the manager 
to receive three hundred blows. I was 
shocked, and ventured to remonstrate; 
but he kept repeating that his farms must 
provide their own straw. 

*' * The next morning I found him on his 
divan in tears. "A dreadful thing,'* he 
said, ** has happened to me. The man 
whom yesterday I ordered to be beaten i.s 
dead. You must find out his family, give 
his widow a pension of one hundred dol- 
lars a year, and provide for his children, if 
he has left any.'* 

" * Mehemet Ali*s sons,* continued Arlim, 
*by «his old Macedonian wife, Ibrahim, 
Ismail, and Toussoun, were all men of 
ability, far superior to those by his slaves, 
and they were much better eaucated ; not 
that they had more learning, but that, as 
they were born before he was pasha, they 
escaped the flattery which has ruined the 
others. Perhaps, however, power would 
have spoilt them as it spoiled Abbas and 
Said. I once said to Achmcd,* " You are 
an excellent man now, but God knows 
what you will be when you are viceroy.** 
Abbas was good and Said was good in 
private life. 

" * Which had the most talent,* I asked, 

* Abbas or Said ? * 

*** Abbas,* he answered. *And though 
he could speak only Turkish he talked 
well and wrote well his own language. 
Said speaks well no language but French, 
his Turkish is bad and he cannot write at 
all. Abbas hated Europeans and Euro- 
pean education, but wished to diffuse 
Turkish education. Said hates all educa- 
tion of every kind. Said is the bolder 
man. Abbas was timid. Mehemet Ali 
used to abuse him for his indolence, and 
prophesied to him that if he passed all his 
time smoking and lolling on his divan he 
would be assassinated. This prophecy 
sank deep into the mind of Abbas, and 
assassination was always uppermost in his 
thoughts.* 

" * 1 wonder then,* I said, * that he ven- 
tured to ill-treat, or even to threaten, the 
very Mamelukes who kept guard over 
him!* 

***No European,* answered Artim, 

* would have done so, nor would he, per- 
haps, when he was cool, but in his fits of 

* The heir apparent in 1856. 



A LEAF OF EASTERN HISTORY. 



anger he was mad. He killed several of 
his Mamelukes — one a few days before 
his own death — and certainly had threat- 
ened the two who murdered him.* 

" * What has become of them } * I asked. 

"*I believe,* answered Artim, 'that 
they are still in the army. They have 
never been punished. Abbas* mother 
came to Said to ask that her son might be 
revenged, but Mahmoud Pasha, Mustapha 
Bey, and Elfi Bey, the three persons who 
first heard of the murder, had all been 
Mamelukes. To preserve the honor of 
the corps they made the physicians sign a 
certificate that the death was natural, and 
Said was anxious that that story should be 
believed, as he did not wish to put the 
assassination of viceroys into people's 
heads.* 

" * With whom,' I said, * does Said live ? * 

" * With his servants,* answered Artim 
Bey, * like all Oriental princes. His bar- 
ber, his bathing-man, his pipe-fillers, form 
the fonds of his society. Then his sol- 
diers, particularly his common soldiers, 
have free access to him. Turks are fond 
of low company. They are at ease in it.* 

" * Said,* I said, * seems to me at ease in 
all companies.* 

" * For a short time,* answered Artim ; 
* but he does not like the restraints of 
polished society, or the sustained conver- 
sation of intelligent persons. He has 
quickness, apropos, and repartee, and 
some humorous naivete, but there is no 
sequence in his ideas. He cannot reason. 
He has dismissed all his council, and 
turned his ministers into clerks; but so 
little is he aware of the extent of the du- 
ties he has assumed that he wastes four 
or five hours every day drilling recruits. 
That, however, is his amusement ; and the 
amusements of a Turk are so few that he 
must take what he can get. A friend of 
mine, a native physician, was called in a 
few days ago by a Turk, and found him 
dying of dyspepsia, arising from torpor of 
mind and body. He advised him to ride. 
" I don't like riding,** said the patient. 
'* Then," said the physician, " spend a few 
hours every morning in your hareem.*' 
** I hate my hareem," was the answer. 
" Then," said the physician, " count your 
money for a few hours.** " I don't care 
about money,** said the patient. ** Then,** 
said the physician, " hang yourself, for 
how can life be endurable to a man who 
does not care for his horse, or his wife, or 
his money?'**" 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



»79 



From The Examiner. 
GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



BY WILLIAM BLACK. 



II 



AUTHOR OF "THE ADVENTURES OF A PHABTON," " THE 



>> 



PRINCESS OF THOLE," ETC 



CHAPTER XXV. 



VICTORY. 

There was not a moment to lose. All 
England was in confusion ; local commit- 
tees hastily assembling; Parliamentary 
agents down in Westminster wasting their 
substance on shilling telegrams ; wire- 
pullers in P^U Mall pitifully begging for 
money to start hopeless contests in the 
interest of the party ; eager young men 
fresh from college consulting their friends 
as to which impregnable seat they should 
assault with a despairing courage ; and 
comfortable and elderly members dolefully 
shaking their heads over the possible con- 
sequences of this precipitate step, inso- 
much that the luncheon-claret at their club 
had no longer any charms for them. And 
then the voluble partisans — the enthu- 
siasts — the believers in the great liberal 
heart of England — how little did they 
reck of the awful catastrophe impending ! 
The abolition of the income tax would 
rally wavering constituencies. The recent 
reverses, at the poll were only the result 
of a temporary irritation ; another week 
would give the government an overwhelm- 
ing majority. Alas ! alas ! These confi- 
dent professions were balm to many an 
anxious heart, this ot* the other luckless 
wight seeking all possible means of con- 
vincing himself that his constituents could 
not be so cruel as to oust him ; but they 
did not prevent those constituents from 
arising and slaying their representative, 
transforming him from a living and mov- 
ing member of Parliament into a wander- 
ing and disconsolate voice. 

Balfour had to think and act for himself 
in this crisis; Mr. Bolitho was far too 
busy to attend to such a paltry place as 
Englebury, even if he had been willing to 
join in what he regarded as a quixotic 
adventure. And now a strange thing hap- 
pened. Balfour had long been of opinion 
that his wife's notions of what public life 
should be were much too romantic and 
high-strung to be practicable. "It w^is well 
she should have them ; it was well that 
her ignorance of the world allowed her to 
imagine them to be possible. But, of 
course, a man living in the denser and 
coarser atmosphere of politics had to take 
human nature as he found it ; and could 
not afford to rule his conduct by certain 



theories which, beautiful enough in them- 
selves, were merely visionary. 

Oddly enough, however, and probably 
unconsciouslv, he did at this moment rule 
his conduct by Lady Sylvia's sentiments. 
It is true that, when he first talked about 
that business of buying the filched com- 
mon from Mr. Chorley, and subsequently 
presenting it to th_e Englebury people, he 
appeared to treat the whole affair as a 
joke ; but all the same he had expressed 
no distinct disapproval of the scheme. It 
was only after Lady Sylvia's indignant 
protest that he came to consider that pro- 
posal as altogether detestable. Further, 
when Bolitho suggested to him that he 
should try to oust the member then sitting 
for Englebury, he saw no reason why he 
should not try to do so. Had not Harn- 
den himself led similar assaults on seats 
deemed even more a personal perquisite 
than his own ? Harnden was used up, was 
of no good to either party, had spoken of 
retiring; why should not the seat be con- 
tested? This was Balfour's opinion at 
the time ; and he himself could not have 
told when he had altered it. All the same, 
as he now hurried up to London, he felt it 
would be mean to try to oust this old gen- 
tleman from his seat ; if Harnden did not 
mean to resign, he, Balfour, would make a 
rush at some other place — Evesham, 
Shoreham, Woodstock, any quarter, in 
fact, that was likely to covet the glory of 
returning so distinguished and indepen- 
dent a person as himself. 

And in his straightforward fashion he 
went direct to this old gentleman, whom 
he found in a little, and old-fashioned, but 
famous club in St. James's Street. The 
member for Englebury had once been a 
fine-looking man ; and even now there was 
something striking about the firm mouth, 
aquiline nose, keen eyes, fresh color, and 
silvery hair; but the tall form was bent 
almost double ; and the voice was queru- 
lous and raucous. He came into the small 
side-room with Balfour's card in his hand ; 
he bowed slightly and stiffly; and in that 
second had keenly studied his adversary's 
face, as if he would read every line of the 
character impressed on it. 

" Sit down," said he. 

Balfour sat down, and appeared to con- 
sider for a second or so how he would 
open the conversation. The two were 
familiar with each other's appearance in 
the House ; but had never spoken. 

" I suppose you know, Mr. Harnden, 
that they mean to turn me out of Ballina- 
scroon ? " 

"Yes, I do — yes," said the old gentle- 



i8o 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



man, in a staccato fashion. " And you 
want to turn me out of Englebury ? Yes 

— I have heard that too.'* 

" I thought of trying," said Balfour, 
frankly. " Bjit now I have made up my 
mind not to stand unless there is a va- 
cancy. There was a talk of your resign- 
ing. I have called now to ask you wheth- 
er there was any truth in the rumor; if 
not, I will let Englebury alone." 

"Ay," said the elder man, with gruff 
emphasis, "Chorley — that fool Chorley 

— told you, didn't he ? You are in league 
with Chorley, aren't you } Do you think 
that fellow can get my seat for you ? " 

" I tell you 1 don't mean to try, sir, 
unless you intend to give it up of your own 
free will. Chorley? Oh, no; I am not 
in league with Chorley ; he and I had a 
quarrel." 

** I didn't hear about that," said the old 
gentleman, still regarding his enemy with 
some reserve. " I haven't been down 
there for a long time now. And so Chor- 
ley was humbugging you, was he? You 
thought he had put you in for a good 
thing, eh? Don't you believe that ass. 
Why, he made some representations to 
me some time ago " 

At this point Mr. Harnden suddenly 
stopped, as if some new light had struck 
him. 

" Ha, that was it, was it ? You quar- 
relled with him, did vou ? " he said, glanc- 
ing at Balfour a quick, shrewd look. 

" Yes, I did,'* said Balfour, " and I swore 
I would fight him, and you, and everybody 
all round, and win the seat in spite of any 
coalition. That was vaporing. I was in 
a rage." 

Mr. Harnden stroked his hands on his 
knees for some little time, and then he 
laughed and looked up. 

" I believe what you have told me," he 
said, staring his enemy full in the face. 
" I see now why that presumptuous fel'ow, 
Chorley, made overtures to me. To tell 
you the truth, I thought he wanted me to 
spend more money, or something of that 
sort, and I sent him about his business. 
Well, sir, you've done the best thing you 
could have thought of by coming straight 
to me. I will tell you a secret. I had 
prepared a nice little plan for dishing both 
you and Chorley." 

And here the old gentleman laughed 
again, at his own smartness. Balfour was 
glad to find him in this pleasant humor; 
It was not every one, if all stories be true, 
that the member for Englebury received 
50 pleasantly. 

** I like the look of you," said Mr. Harn- 



den, bluntly. "I don't think you would 
play any tricks." 

" I am very much obliged to you," said 
Balfour, drily. 

" Oh, don t you be insulted. I am an 
old man : I speak my mind. And when 
you come to my time of life — well, you'll 
know more about electioneering dodges. 
So you've quarrelled with Chorley, have 
you ? '* 

" Yes." 

" H'm. And you believed he would 
have given you my seat ? " 

" I thought with his help I might have 
won it — that is, if the representations 
were true. I was told you weren't very 
popular down there, Mr. Harnden." 

" Perhaps not — perhaps not," said the 
old man. " They grumble because I speak 
the truth, in Parliament and out. But 
don't you make any mistake about it ; all 
that would disappear if another man were 
to contest the seat. They'll stick to me at 
an election ; depend on that, sir." 

"Then you propose to remain in Par- 
liament,'* said Balfour, rising. "In that 
case, I need not waste your time further." 

" Stay a minute," said the old man, 
curtly. " I told you I meant to dish you 
and Chorley." 

" Yes." 

"You and I might dish Chorley, and 
you might have the seat." 

Balfour was not an emotional person ; but 
he was a young man, and desperately anx- 
ious about his chances of being returned ; 
and at this abrupt proposal his heart 
jumped. 

" There is something about that fellow 
that acts on me like a red rag on a bull," 
continued this irascible old man. " He is 
as cunning as a fox, and as slippery as an 
eel; and his infernal twaddle about the 
duties of a member of Parliament — and 
his infernal wife too ! Look here ; you are 
a young man ; you have plenty of energy. 
Go down at once to Englebury ; issue an 
address ; pitch it high and strong about 
corrupt local influence and intimidation; 
denounce that fellow, and call on the elect- 
ors to free themselves from the tyranny 
of dictation — you know the sort of bun- 
kum. That will drive Chorley over to 
me." 

" You are excessively kind, sir," said 
Balfour, who, despite his disappointment, 
could not help' bursting out into a laugh. 
" I have no doubt that would be excellent 
sport for you. But, you see, I want to 
get into Parlim'int. I can't go skylarking 
about Englebury, merely to make a fool of 
Mr. Chorley." 



GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. 



i8i 



" There's a good deal of the greenhorn 
about you," said the old gentlemen, testily, 
for he did not like being laughed at, " but 
that is natural at your age. Of course, I 
mean to resign. 1 had thought of resign- 
ing in favor of that boy of Lord S 's, 

who is a clever lad, if he would give up 
French Radicals and atheism. But I will 
resign in your favor, if you like — at the 
last moment — after Chorlev has been 
working for me like the houna he is. And 
what do you say to that, young man ? " 

Mr. Harnden rose, with a proud smile 
on his face. He was vain of his diplo- 
macy; perhaps, too, it pleased him to 
patronize this younger man, to whom a 
seat in the house was of such infinite con- 
sequence. 

*' Do I understand, sir, that you meant 
to give up your seat in any case ? " Bal- 
four asked. 

" Certainly I did," said the other. " If 
I wished to retain it, do you think I should 
be afraid of you — I mean of any candi- 
date that Chorley could bring forward ? 
No, no ; don't you believe any such stuff. 
The people of Englebury and I have had 
our quarrels ; but we are good friends at 
bottom. It will be a very disgraceful 
thing if they don't give me a handsome 
piece of plate when f retire." 

" My dear sir," said Balfour, with satur- 
nine simplicity, "/will take care of that." 

"And I am not going to spend a penny 
in a bogus contest ; mmd that But that 
is not your business. Now go away. 
Don't tell anybody you have seen me. I 
like the look of you ; I think you have too 
many opinions ;' but as soon as you get 
into some small office — and the govern- 
ment might do worse, I will say — you 
will get cured of that. Good-day to you." 

There is a telegraph office at the foot 
of St. James's Street. Balfour walked 
right down there, and sent a message to 
his friend Jewsbury at Oxford: ^'Come 
cbwn at once to the Green Fox^ Engle- 
bury. Some fun going on^"* Then, find- 
ing he could just catch the afternoon train, 
he jumped into a hansom and drove to 
Paadington Station. He arrived at Engle- 
bury without even a tooth-brush ; but he 
had his cheque-book in his pocket. 

The Rev. Mr. Jewsbury arrived the next 
day ; and the business of the election 
began at once. Jewsbury was in the 
secret, and roared with lauo;hter as he 
heightened the pungency of the para 

fraph which called on the electors of 
Inglebury to free themselves from polit- 
ical slavery. And Balfour laughed as 
heartily when he found himself lashed and 



torn to pieces every morning by the Engle- 
bury Mercury ; because he looked for- 
ward to the time when the editor of that 
important organ might have to change his 
tune, in asking the sitting member to obtain 
the government advertisements for him. 

It was a fierce fight, to be sure ; and 
Mr. and Mrs. Chorley had such faith in 
their time-honored representative that they 
called on their fellow-townsmen to raise a 
sum to defray Mr. Harnden's expenses. 
Then, on the night before the election, 
the thunderbolt fell. Mr. Harnden at- 
tended a meeting of his friends and sup- 
porters. He thanked them most cordially 
for all they had don*^ on his behalf. The 
weight of years, he said, was beginning to 
tell on him ; nevertheless he had been 
loth to take his hand from the plough ; 
now, however, at the last moment, he felt 
it would be a mistake to task their kind- 
ness and forbearance longer. But he felt 
it a privilege to be able to resign in favor 
of an opponent who had throughout treat- 
ed him with the greatest courtesy — an 
opponent who had already made some 
mark in the House — who would do credit 
to the borough. That the constituency 
was not divided in its opinions they would 
prove by voting for Mr. Balfour like one 
man. He called for three cheers for his 
antagonist ; and the meeting, startled, 
bewildered, but at the same time vaguely 
enthusiastic, positively roared. Whether 
Mr. Chorley, who was on the platform, 
joined in that outburst could not well be 
made out. Next day, as a matter of 
course, Mr. Hugh Balfour was elected 
member of Parliament for the borough 
of Englebury; and he straightway tele- 
graphed off this fact to his wife. Perhaps 
she was not looking at the newspapers. 

Well, he was only a young man ; and he 
was no doubt proud of his success as be 
hastened down to Surrey again. Then 
everything promised him a glad home- 
coming; for he had learned in passing 
through London that the charge against 
Lord Willowby and his fellow-speculators 
had been withdrawn — he supposed the 
richer merchants had joined to buy the 
man off. And as he drove over to the 
Lilacs he was full of eager schemes. 
Lady Sylvia would come at once to Lon- 
don, and the house in Piccadilly would be 
got ready for the opening of Parliament 
It would be complimentary if she went 
down with him to Englebury, and called 
on one or two people whose acquaintance 
he had made down there. Surely she 
would be glad to welcome him after his 
notable victory. 



l82 



CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 



But what was his surprise and chagrin 
to find that Lady Sylvia's congratulations 
were of a distinctly formal and correct 
character; and that she did not at all 
enter into his plans for leaving the Lilacs. 

** Why, Sylvia," said he, " surely you 
don't hate Englebury simply because you 
disliked the Chorleys ? Chorley has been 
my sworn enemy all through this fi^ht; 
and I have smote him hip and thigh ! " 

" I scarcely remember anything about 
the Chorleys," she said, indinerently. 

" But why would you rather live down 
here ? " said he, in amazement. 

" You know you will be every night at 
the House," she said. 

** Not more than other members," he 
remonstrated. " I shall have three nights 
a week free.'* 

" And then you will be going out among 
people who are altogether strangers to me 
— who will talk about things of which I 
know nothing " 

" My dear child," said he, " you don't 
mean to say you intend to live down here 
all by yourself during the time Parliament 
is sitting ? You will go mad ! " 

" I have told you before, Hugh," said 
she, " that I cannot leave papa while he is 
so poorly as he is at present. You will 
have plenty of occupation and amusement 
in London without me ; I must remain 
here." 

There was a flash of angry light in the 
deep-set grey eyes. 

" If you insist on remaining here," said 
he, ** because your father chooses to go 
pottering after those rabbits " 

Then he checked himself. Had he not 
vowed to himself again and again that he 
would be tenderly considerate to this gen- 
tle-souled creature, who had placed the 
happiness of her life in his hands ? If 
she had higher notions of duty than he 
could very well understand, ought he not 
at least to respect them ? 

" Ah, well, Sylvia," said he, patting her 
on the shoulder, " perhaps vou are right. 
But I am afraid you will find it very dull." 



From The Comhill Magazine. 
CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 

Few people visit Crema. It is a little 
country town of Lombardy, between Cre- 
mona and Treviglio, with no historic mem- 
ories but very misty ones belonging to the 
days of the Visconti dynasty. On every 
sicie around the city walls stretch smiling 
vineyards and rich meadows, where the 



elms are married to the mulberry-trees by 
long festoons of foliage hiding purple 
grapes, where the sunflowers droop their 
heavy golden heads among tall stems of 
millet and gigantic maize, and here and 
there a rice-crop ripens in the marshy 
loam. In vintage time the carts, drawn by 
their white oxen, come creaking town ward 
in the evening, laden with blue bunches. 
Down the long straight roads, between 
rows of poplars, they creep on ; and on 
the shafts beneath the pyramid of fruit lie 
contadini stained with lees of wine. Far 
off across that " waveless sea " of Lom- 
bardy, which has been the battle-field of 
countless generations, rise the dim grey 
Alps, or else pearled domes of thunder- 
clouds in gleaming masses over some tall 
solitary tower. Such backgrounds, full of 
peace, suggestive of almost infinite dis- 
tance, and dignified with colors of incom- 
parable depth and breadth, the Venetian 
painters loved. No landscape in Europe 
is more wonderful than this — thrice won- 
derful in the vastness of its arching heav- 
ens, in the stillness of its level plam, and 
in the bulwark of huge crested mountains, 
reared afar like bastions against the north- 
ern sky. 

The little town is all alive in this Sep- 
tember weather. At every corner of the 
street, under rustling abcles and ihick- 
foliaged planes, at the doors of palaces and 
in the yards of inns, men, naked from the 
thighs downward, are treading the red 
must into vats and tuns ; while their mild- 
eyed oxen lie beneath them in the road, 
peaceably chewing the cud between one 
journey to the vineyard and another. It 
must not be imagined that the scene of 
Alma Tadema's " Roman Vintage," or 
what we fondly picture to our fancy of the 
Athenian Lenasa, is repeated in the streets 
of Crema. This modern treading of the 
wine-press is a very prosaic affair. The 
town reeks with a sour smell of old casks 
and crushed grapcskins, and the men and 
women at work bear no resemblance what- 
ever to Bacchus and his crew. Yet even 
as it is, the Lombard vinta<je, beneath 
floods of sunlight and a pure blue sky, is 
beautiful ; and he who would fain make 
acquaintance with Crema, should time his 
entry into the old town, if possible, on 
some still, golden afternoon of autumn. It 
is then, if ever, that he will learn to love 
the glowing brickwork of its churches and 
the quaint terra-cotta traceries that form 
its chief artistic charm. 

How the unique brick architecture of the 
Lombard cities took its origin — whether 
from the precepts of Byzantine aliens in 



CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 



the earliest middle ages, or from the native 
instincts of a mixed race composed of 
Gallic, Ligurian, Roman, and Teutonic 
elements, under the leadership of Longo- 
bardic rulers — is a question for antiqua- 
rians to decide. There can, however, be 
no doubt that the monuments of the Lom- 
bard style, as they now exist, are no less 
genuinely local, no less characteristic of 
the country they adorn, no less indigenous 
to the soil they sprang from, than the Attic 
colonnade of Mnesicles and Ictinus. What 
the marble quarries of Pentelicus were to 
the Athenian builders, the clay beneath 
their feet was to those Lombard crafts- 
men. From it they fashioned structures 
as enduring, towers as majestic, and cathe- 
dral aisles as solemn, as were ever wrought 
from chiselled stone. There is a true 
sympathy between those buildings and the 
Lombard landscape, which by itself might 
suffice to prove the originality of their 
almost unknown architects. The rich 
color of the baked clay — finely modulated 
from a purplish red, through russet, crim- 
son, pink, and orange, to pale vellow and 
dull grey — harmonizes with tne brilliant 
greenery of Lombard vegetation and with 
the deep azure of the distant Alpine range. 
Reared aloft above the flat expanse of 
plain, those square torroni^ tapering into 
octagons and crowned with slender cones, 
break the long sweeping lines and infinite 
horizons with a contrast that affords re- 
lief, and yields a resting-place to tired 
eyes; while, far away, seen haply from 
some bridge above Ticino, or some high- 
built palace loggia, they gleam like col- 
umns of pale rosy fire against the front of 
mustering storm-clouds blue with rain. In 
that happy orchard of Italy, 3. pergola of 
vines in leaf, a clump of green acacias, and 
a campanile soaring above its church roof, 
brought into chance combination with the 
reaches of the plain and the dim mountain 
range, make up a picture eloquent in its 
suggestive beauty. 

Those ancient builders wrought cun- 
ningly with their material. The bricks are 
fashioned and fixed to last for all time. 
Exposed to the icy winds of a Lombard 
winter, to the fierce fire of a Lombard 
summer, and to the moist vapors of a Lom- 
bard autumn; neglected by unheeding 
generations; with flowers clustering in 
their crannies, and birds nesting in their 
eaves, and mason-bees filling the delicate 
network of their traceries, they still pre- 
sent angles as sharp as when they were but 
finished, and joints as nice as when the 
mortar dried in the first months of their 
building. This immunity from age and 



183 

injury thev owe partly to the imperishable 
nature of baked clay ; partly to the care of 
the artists who selected and mingled the 
right sorts of earth, burned them with 
scrupulous attention, and fitted them to- 
gether with a patience born of loving ser- 
vice. Each member of the edifice was 
designed with a view to its ultimate place. 
The proper curve was ascertained for 
cylindrical columns and for rounded arch- 
es. Larger bricks were moulded for the 
supporting walls, and lesser pieces were 
adapted to the airy vaults and lanterns. 
In the brickfield and the kiln the whole 
church was planned and wrought out in its 
details, before the hands that made a unity 
of all these scattered elements were set to 
the work of raising it in air. When they 
came to put the puzzle together, they laid 
each brick against its neighbor, filling up 
the almost imperceptible mterstices with 
liquid cement composed of quicklime and 
fine sand in water. After five centuries 
the seams between the layers of brick that 
make the bell-tower of S. Gottardo at 
Milan, vield no point of vantage to the 
penknife or the chisel. 

Nor was it in their welding of the bricks 
alone that these craftsmen showed their 
science. They were wont to enrich the 
surface with marble, sparingly but effec- 
tively employed, as in those slender de- 
tached columns, which add such beauty 
to the octagon of S. Gottardo, or in the 
stringcourses of strange beasts and rep- 
tiles that adorn so many of the church 
fronts of Pavia. They called to their aid 
the tnandorlato of Verona, supporting 
their porch pillars on the backs of cou- 
chant lions, inserting polished slabs on 
their fagades, and building huge sarcoph- 
agi into their cloister alleys. Between 
terra-cotta and this marble of Verona there 
exists a deep and delicate affinity. It took 
the name of tnandorlato^ I suppose, from 
resembling almond blossoms. But it is 
far from having the simple beauty of a 
single hue. Like all noble veined stones, 
it passes by a series of modulations and 
gradations through a gamut of associated 
rather than contrasted tints. Not the 
pink of the almond blossom only, but the 
creamy whiteness of the almond kernel, 
and the dull yellow of the almond nut may 
be found in it ; and yet these colors are so 
blent and blurred to all-pervading mellow- 
ness, that nowhere is there any shock of 
contrast or violence of a preponderating 
tone. The veins which run in labyrinths 
of crossing, curving, and contorted lines 
all over its smooth surface add, no doubt, 
to this effect of unity. The polish, lastly, 



1 84 



CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 



which it takes, makes the mandorlato 
shine like a smile upon the sober face of 
the brickwork: for, serviceable as terra- 
cotta is for nearly all artistic purposes, it 
cannot reflect light ordain the illumination 
which comes from surface brightness. 

What the clay can do almost better than 
any crystalline material, may be seen in 
the mouldings so characteristic of Lom- 
bard architecture. Geometrical patterns 
of the rarest and most fanciful device; 
scrolls of acanthus foliage, and traceries 
of tendrils ; Cupids swingeing in festoons 
of vines ; angels joining hands in dance, 
with fluttering skirts, and windy hair, and 
mouths that symbol singing; grave faces 
of old men and beautiful proxies of maid- 
ens leaning from medallions ; wide-winged 
genii filling the spandrils of cloister arches, 
and cherubs clustered in the rondure 
of rose-windows, — ornaments like these, 
wrought from the plastic clay, and adapted 
with true taste to the requirements of the 
architecture, are familiar to every one who 
has studied the church front of Crema, 
the cloisters of the Certosa, the courts of 
the Ospedale Maggiore at Milan, or the 
public palace of Cremona. 

If the mandorlato gives a smile to those 
majestic Lombard ouildins^s, the terra- 
cotta decorations add the element of life 
and movement. The thought of the artist 
in its first freshness and vivacity is felt in 
them. They have all the spontaneity of 
improvisation, the seductive melody of 
unpremeditated music. Moulding the sup- 
ple earth with "hand obedient to the 
brain," the plasticatore has impressed his 
most fugitive dreams of beauty on it with- 
out effort ; and what it cost him but a few 
fatigueless hours to fashion, the steady 
heat of the furnace has dfted with imper- 
ishable life. Such work, no doubt, has 
the defects of its qualities. As there are 
few difficulties to overcome, it suffers from 
a fatal facility — nee pluteum ccedit nee 
demorsos sapit ungues. It is therefore 
apt to be unequal, touching at times the 
highest point of inspiration, and sinking 
not unfrequently into the commonplace of 
easy-going triviality. But it is never la- 
bored, never pedantic, never dulled by the 
painful effort to subdue an obstinate mate- 
rial to the artist's will. If marble is re- 
quired to develop the strength of the few 
supreme sculptors, terra-cotta saves intact 
the fancies of a crowd of lesser men. 

When we reflect that all the force, so- 
lemnity, and beauty of the Lombard build- 
ings was evoked from clay, we learn from 
them this lesson : that the thought of 
man needs neither precious material nor 



yet stubborn substance for the production 
of enduring masterpieces. The red earth 
was enough for God when he made man 
in his own image ; and mud dried in the 
sun suffices for the artist, who is next to 
God in his creative faculty, since non 
merita nome di ereatore se non Iddio ed 
il poeta. After all, what is more everlast- 
ing than terra-cotta.^ The hob-nails of 
the boys who ran across the brickfields in 
the Roman town of Silchester may still 
be seen, mingled with the impress of the 
feet of dogs and hoofs of goats, in the 
tiles discovered there. Such traces might 
serve as a metaphor for the footfall of 
artistic genius, when the form-giver has 
stamped his thought upon the moist clay, 
and fire has made that imprint permanent. 
Of all these Lombard edifices, none is 
more beautiful than the cathedral of Cre- 
ma, with its delicately finished campanile, 
built of choicely tinted yellow bricks, and 
ending in a lantern of the gracefulest, 
most airily capricious fancy. This bell- 
tower does not display the gigantic force 
of Cremona's famous torrazzo, shooting 
three hundred and ninety-six feet into blue 
ether from the city square ; nor can it rival 
the octagon of S. Gottardo for warmth of 
hue. Yet it has a character of elegance, 
combined with boldness of invention, that 
justifies the citizens of Crema in their 
pride. It is unique; and he who has not 
seen it does not know the whole resources 
of the Lombard style. The facade of the 
cathedral displays that peculiar blending 
of Byzantine or Romanesque round arches 
with Gothic details in the windows and 
with the acute angle of the central pitch, 
which forms the characteristic quality of 
the late trecento Lombard manner. In its 
combination of purity and richness it cor- 
responds to the best age of decorated 
work in English Gothic. What, however, 
strikes a northern observer is the strange 
detachment of this elaborate facade from 
the main structure of the church. Like a 
frontispiece cut out of cardboard and 
pierced with ornamental openings, it 
shoots far above the low roof of the nave ; 
so that at night the moon, rising above 
the southern aisle, shines through its top- 
most window, and casts the shadow of its 
tracery upon the pavement of the square. 
This is a constructive blemish to which 
the Italians in no part of the peninsula 
were sensitive. They seem to have re- 
garded their church-fronts as indepen- 
dent of the edifice, capable of separate 
treatment, and worthy in themselves of 
being made the subject of decorative skill. 
In the so-called Santuario of Crema — 



CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 



a circular church dedicated to S. Maria 
della Croce, outside the walls — the Lom- 
bard style has been adapted to the man- 
ner of the Mid Renaissance. This church 
was raised in the last years of the fif- 
teenth century by Gian Battista Battagli, 
an architect of Lodi, who followed the 
pure rules of taste bequeathed to north 
Italian builders by Bramante. The beauty 
of the edifice is due entirely to its tranquil 
dignity and harmony of parts, the lightness 
of its circling loggia, and the just propor- 
tion maintained between the central struc- 
ture and its four projecting porticoes. The 
sharp angles of these vestibules afford a 
contrast to the simplicity of the main 
building, while their clustered cupolas as- 
sist the general effect of roundness aimed 
at by the architect. Such a church as 
this proves how much may be achieved 
by the happy distribution oi architectural 
masses. It was the triumph of the best 
Renaissance style to attain lucidity of 
treatment, and to produce beauty by geo- 
metrical proportion. When Leo Battista 
Alberti complained that a slight alteration 
of the curves in his design for S. Fran- 
cesco at Rimini would " spoil his music,'* 
this is what he meant. The melody of 
lines and the harmony of parts made a 
symphony to his eyes no less agreeable 
than a concert of tuned lutes and voices 
to his ears ; and to this music he was so 
sensitive that any deviation was a discord. 
After seeing the churches of Crema 
and sauntering about the streets awhile, 
there is nothing left to do but to take 
refuge in the old Albergo del Pozzo. 
This is one of those queer Italian inns, 
which carry you away at once into a scene 
of Goldoni. It is part of some palace, 
where nobles housed their bravi in the 
sixteenth century, and which the lesser 
people of to-day have turned into a dozen 
habitations. Its great stone staircase 
leads to a saloon upon which the various 
bed-chambers open ; and round its court- 
yard runs an open balcony, and from the 
court grows up a fig-tree poking ripe fruit 
against a bedroom window. Oleanders in 
tubs, and red salvias in pots, and kitchen 
herbs in boxes, flourish on the pavement, 
where the ostler comes to wash his car- 
riages, and where the barber shaves the 
Coodle of the house. Visitors to the Al- 
ergo del Pozzo are invariably asked if 
they have seen the Museo; and when 
they answer in the negative, they are con- 
ducted with some ceremony to a large 
room on the ground-floor of the inn, look- 
ing out upon tne courtyard and the fig-tree. 
It was here that I gained the acquaint- 



I8S 

ance of Signor Folcioni, and became 
possessor of an object that has made the 
memory of Crema doubly interesting to 
me ever since. 

When we entered the Museo, we fouud 
a little old man, gentle, grave, and unob 
trusive, varnishing the ugly portrait of 
some signor of the cinquecento. Round 
the walls hung pictures of mediocre value 
in dingy frames; but all of them bore 
sounding titles. Titians, Leonardos, Gui- 
do Renis, and Luinis, looked down and 
waited for a purchaser. In truth this 
museum was a bric-d-brac shop of a sort 
that is common enough in Italy, where 
treasures of old lace, glass, armor, furni- 
ture, and tapestry may still be met with. 
Signor Folcioni began. by pointing out the 
merits of his pictures ; and after making 
due allowance for his zeal as amateur and 
dealer, it was possible to join in some of 
his eulogiums. A would-be Titian, for 
instance, bought in Verona from a noble 
house in ruins, showed Venetian wealth of 
color in its gemmy greens and lucid crim- 
sons shining from a background deep and 
glowing. Then he led us to a walnut- 
wood bureau of late Renaissance work, 
profusely carved with nymphs and cupids, 
and armed men, among festoons of fruits 
embossed in high relief. Deeply drilled 
worm-holes set a seal of antiquity upon 
the blooming faces and luxuriant garlands 
— like the touch of Time who "delves 
the parallels in beauty's brow.'* On the 
shelves of an ebony cabinet close by he 
showed us a row of cups cut out of rock- 
crystal and mounted in gilt silver, with 
heaps of engraved gems, old snuff-boxes, 
coins, medals, sprays of coral, and all the 
indescribable lumber that one age flings 
aside as worthless for the next to pick up 
from the dust-heap and regard as precious. 
Surely the genius of culture in our cen- 
tury might be compared to a chiffonnier 
of Paris, who, when the night has fallen, 
goes into the streets, bag on back and 
lantern in hand, to rake up the waifs and 
strays a day of whirling life has left him. 

The next curiosity was an ivory carving 
of St. Anthony preaching to the fishes, so 
fine and small you held it on your palm, 
and used a lens to look at it. Yet there 
stood the santo gesticulating, and there 
were the fishes in rows, the little fishes 
first, and then the middle-sized, and last 
of all the great big fishes almost out at 
sea, with their heads above the water and 
their mouths wide open, just as the Fio- 
retti di San Francesco describes them. 
After this came some original drawings 
of doubtful interest, and then a case of 



i86 



CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 



fifty-two nieliL These were of unques- 
tionable value; for has not Cicognara 
engraved them on a page of his classic 
monograph ? The thin silver plates, over 
which once passed the burin of Maso 
Finiguerra, cutting lines finer than hairs, 
and setting here a shadow in dull acid- 
eaten grey, and there a high light of 
exquisite polish, were far more delicate 
than any proofs impressed from them. 
These frail masterpieces of Florentine art 
— the first beginnings of line engraving — 
we held in our hands while Signor Fol- 
cioni read out Cicognara's commentary in 
a slow, impressive voice, breaking off now 
and then to point at the originals before 
us. 

The sun had set, and the room was 
almost dark, when he laid his book down, 
and said : ** I have not much left to 
show — yet stay! Here are still some 
little things of interest." He then 
opened the door into his bedroom, and 
took down from a nail above his bed a 
wooden crucifix. Few things have fasci- 
nated me more than this crucifix, pro- 
duced without parade, half negligently, 
from the dregs of his collection by a dealer 
in old curiosities at Crema. The cross 
was, or is — for it is lying on the table now 
before me — twenty-one inches in length, 
made of strong wood, covered with coarse, 
yellow parchment, and shod at the four 
ends with brass. The Christ is roughly 
hewn in reddish wood, colored scarlet 
where the blood streams from the five 
wounds. Over the head an oval medallion, 
nailed into the cross, serves as framework 
to a miniature of the Madonna, softly 
smiling with a Correggiesque simper. The 
whole crucifix is not a work of art, but such 
as may be found in every convent. Its date 
cannot be earlier than the beginning of 
the eighteenth century. As I held it in 
my hand I thought, perhaps this has 
been carried to the bedside of the sick and 
dying; preachers have brandished it from 
the pulpit over conscience-stricken congre- 
gations; monks have knelt before it on the 
brick floor of their cells, and novices have 
kissed it in the vain desire to drown their 
yearnings after the relinquished world ; 
perhaps it has attended criminals to the 
scaffold, and heard the secrets of repent- 
ant murderers; but why should it be 
shown me as a thing of rarity ? These 
thoughts passed through my mind, while 
Signor Folcioni quietly remarked : " I 
bought this cross from the fraii when 
their convent was dissolved in Crema." 
Then he bade me turn it round, and 
showed a little steel knob fixed into the 



back between the arms. This was a 
spring. He pressed it, and the upper and 
lower parts of the cross came asunder; 
and holding the top like a handle, I drew 
out as from a scabbard a sharp steel 
blade, concealed in the thickness of the 
wood, behind the very body of the agoniz- 
ing Christ. What had been a crucifix 
became a deadly poniard in my grasp, and 
the rust upon it in the twilight looked like 
blood. " I have often wondered," said 
Signor Folcioni, " that the /rati cared to 
sell me this." 

There is no need to raise the question 
of the genuineness of this strange relic, 
though I confess to having had my doubts 
about it, or to wonder for what nefarious 
purposes the impious weapon was de- 
signed — whether the blade was inserted 
by some rascal monk who never told the 
tale, or whether it was used on secret ser- 
vice by the friars. On its surface the 
infernal engine carries a dark certainty of 
treason, sacrilege, and violence. Yet it 
would be wrong to incriminate the Order 
of St. Francis by any suspicion, and idle 
to seek the actual history of this mysteri- 
ous weapon. A writer of fiction could 
indeed produce some dark tale in the 
style of De Stendhal's ^^Nouvelles^^^ and 
christen it " The Crucifix of Crema." 
And how delighted would Webster have 
been if he had chanced to hear of such a 
sword-sheath ! He might have placed it 
in the hands of Bosola for the keener tor- 
ment of his duchess. Flamineo might 
have used it; or the disgui.sed friars, who 
made the death-bed of Bracciano hideous, 
might have plunged it in the duke's heart 
after mocking his eyes with the figure of 
the suffering Christ. To imagine such 
an instrument of moral terror mingled with 
material violence, lay within the scope of 
Webster's sinister and powerful genius. 
But unless he had seen it with his eyes, 
what poet would have ventured to devise 
the thing and display it even in the dumb 
show of a tragedy? Fact is more won- 
derful than romance. No apocalypse of 
Antichrist matches what is told ot Rode- 
rigo Borgia; and the crucifix of Crema 
exceeds the sombre fantasy of Webster. 

Whatever may be the truth about this 
cross, it has at any rate the value of a 
symbol or a metaphor. The idea which it 
materializes, the historical events of which 
it is a sign, may well arrest attention. A 
sword concealed in the crucifix — what 
emblem brings more forcibly to mind than 
this that two-edged glaive of persecution 
which Dominic unsheathed to mow down 
the populations of Provence and to make 



RESULTS OF THE INVENTION OF THE SEWING-MACHINE. 187 



Spain destitute of men ? Looking upon 
the crucifix of Crema, we may seem to 
see pestilence-stricken multitudes of 
Moors and Jews dying on the coasts of 
Africa and Italy. The Spaniards enter 
Mexico ; and this is the cross they carry 
in their hand?. They take possession of 
Peru ; and while the gentle people of the 
Incas come to kiss the bleeding brows of 
Christ, they plunge this dagger in their 
sides. What, again, was the temporal 
l>ower of the papacy but a sword embeded 
in a cross? Each papa re, when he 
ascended the holy chair, was forced to 
take the crucifix of Crema and to bear it 
till his death. A long procession of war- 
loving pontiffs, levying armies and paying 
captains with the pence of St. Peter, in 
order to keep by arms the lands they had 
acquired by fraud, defiles before our eyes. 
First goes the terrible Sixtus IV., who died 
of grief when news was brought him that 
the Italian princes had made peace. He 
it was who sanctioned the conspiracy to 
murder the Medici in church, at the mo- 
ment of the elevation of the host. The 
brigands, hired to do this work, re- 
fused at the last moment. The sacrilege 
appalled them. " Then," says the chroni- 
cler. " was found a priest, who being used 
to churches, had no scruple." The poi- 
gnard this priest carried was this crucifix 
of Crema. After Sixtus came the blood- 
stained Borgia; and after him Julius II., 
whom the Romans in triumphal songs 
proclaimed a second Mars, and who 
turned, as Michael Angelo expressed it. 
the chalices of Rome into swords and 
helms. Leo X., who dismembered Italy 
for his brother and nephew, and Clement 
VII., who broke the neck of Florence and 
delivered the Eternal City to the spoiler, 
follow. Of the antinomy between the 
vicariate of Christ and an earthly king- 
dom, incarnated by these and other Holy 
Fathers, what symbol could be found more 
fitting than a dagger with a crucifix for 
case and covering F 

It is not easy to think or write of these 
matters without rhetoric. When I laid 
my head upon my pillow that night in the 
Albergo del Pozza at Crema, it was full of 
such thoughts; and when at last sleep 
came, it brought with it a dream begotten 
doubtless by the perturbation of my fancy. 
For 1 thought that a brown Franciscan, 
with hollow cheeks, and eyes aflame be- 
neath his heavy cowl, sat by my bedside, 
and, as he raised the crucifix in his lean, 
quivering hands, whispered a tale of 
aeadly passion and of dastardly revenge. 
His confession carried me away to a con- 



vent garden of Palermo; and there was 
love in the story, and hate that is stronger 
than love, and, for the ending of the whole 
matter, remorse which dies not even in 
the grave. Each new possessor of the 
crucifix of Crema, he told me, was forced 
to hear from him in dreams his dreadful 
history. But, since it was a dream and 
nothing more, why should I repeat it ! I 
have wandered far enough already from the 
vintage and the sunny churches of the 
little Lombard town. J. A. S. 



From The Economist. 
THE RESULTS OF THE INVENTION OF 
THE SEWING-MACHINE. 

It is very probable that as we obtain a 
fuller and more accurate command of facts 
relating to the production of wealth under 
perfectly free conditions in countries like 
our own, where intelligence is widely dif- 
fused, it will be found that the methods of 
most efficient production are those which 
necessarily contain within themselves the 
methods of most effectual distribution. 
It has been customary to assume, or infer, 
that the laws regulatmg the production of 
wealth were one thing, and the liws regulat- 
ing its distribution were another; so much 
so, indeed, that while legislation could not 
interfere with production without doing 
harm, it might and ought, on grounds of 
justice and duty, to regulate distribution. 
There is strong reason to believe that inter- 
ference is just as undesirable and pernicious 
in the latter case as in the former. Given 
the most efficient production, that is to 
say, articles produced in the cheapest, 
swiftest, and most skilful manner by the 
free competition of invention, capital, in- 
telligence, and industry, and it is true, as 
a necessary condition of production so 
sustained, that the wealth created by, and 
arising from it, is distributed step by step, 
as the process goes on, in the most equita- 
ble manner among all the parties engaged 
in the enterprise. 

This is a proposition to be tested by 
facts, carefully put together, not by ingen- 
ious argumentation on hypothetical cases ; 
and it fortunately happens that a paper of 
great ability on the sewing-m;ichine and 
its results, contributed by Mr. John Plum- 
mcr (well known as a high authority on 
industrial topics) to the " Companion to the 
Almanac " for the present year (1877), fur- 
nishes the precise sort of evidence re- 
quired. 

The sewing-machine first appeared as a 



x88 



THE RESULTS OF THE INVENTION 



practical invention about thirty years ago. 
Thimonnier, the real ori^nator of the idea, 
was a Frenchman, and like too many great 
inventors, he did not live to enjoy any part 
of the fruits of his genius. Elias Howe, 
who followed Thimonnier, was an Ameri- 
can working artisan, and found his first 
real support in England about 1847. At 
the present time, that is about thirty years 
after the establishment of the invention, 
there are upwards of four millions of sew- 
ing-machines in use in various parts of the 
world; and the annual number of new 
machines produced in this country is esti- 
mated at eighty thousand, employing about 
one hundred thousand persons. In France, 
Germany, and Belgium, the production of 
machines is very large, and in the United 
States the annual outturn of machines is 
perhaps greater than in the whole of Eu- 
rope. In 1862 it was estimated that in the 
United Stales each machine saved to its 
owner 50^. a week, or say 130/. per annum, 
in wages alone ; or an aggregate saving in 
wages, for the whole country, of about 
thirty millions sterling. In 1875, that ag- 
gregate saving had risen to one hundred 
millions sterling. 

The facts, therefore, to be considered 
are imposing by their magnitude, and of 
high value, by reason of tne diversity of 
the countries and populations by which 
they are supplied. 

Mr. Plummer says: "In England the 
sewing-machine was first employed in the 
manufacture of common stays and corsets, 
of which several million pairs are annually 
produced. In earlier days the materials 
were sewn together by needlewomen of 
the poorest class, principally the wives of 
seamen and dock-laborers, whose earnings 
seldom averaged more than 35. or 4J. a 
week. . . . From the stay-trade the sew- 
ing-machine found its way into the trades 
connected with the production of shirts, 
mantles, dresses, trousers, coats, and other 
articles of male and female clothing. In 
some of these trades the needlewomen 
could not, even by working very long 
hours, obtain more than ^s. or 4J". a week, 
and the public were continually shocked 
by painful revelations of destitution and 
misery among seamstresses. Hood's 
* Song of the Shirt ' expressed the public 
feeling. Needlewomen's Aid Associations 
were started, but wholly failed to lessen 
the evil. . . . T^e appearance of the sew- 
ing-machine changed all this. Shirts 
were made more rapidly and more cheaply 
than before, but the workwomen were 
better paid and did not work so many 
hours. The hours of labor fell, indeed, 



from eighteen hours a day to eleven or 
twelve." 

The demand for hand labor increased, 
because, while the machine did the heavy 
mechanical part of the work, the cutting 
out and preparation of the materials ren- 
dered necessary more " hands," and a 
superior aptitude and intelligence. The 
workers also became to a large extent the 
owners of the machines worked by them 
at home ; and as the slavery and degrada- 
tion of the needle became almost abolished, 
crowds of young women were attracted to 
machine-working by the short hours and 
the high wages. It is this diversion of 
female labor which lies at the root of the 
scarcity of domestic servants, and the ex- 
traordinary rise in the wages given to 
such servants. 

Improvements in the machine enabled 
it to be applied to boots, shoes, harness, 
and most articles made of leather. In 
November, 1857, a machine of this kind 
was introduced at Northampton, and im- 
mediately led to organized opposition by 
the Crispins of that centre of the shoe 
trade. This opposition was more or less 
successful until February, 1859, when the 
manufacturers of Northampton and Staf- 
ford formed themselves into a league, and 
announced that they were prepared to 
compel the use of the machines in spite of 
the opposition of the men. A strike 
ensued. The men were defeated ; and 
the machines very rapidly revolutionized 
the whole industry of boot and shoe- 
making. Mr. Plummer says: "With the 
termination of the strike the operatives 
became eager to possess machines of 
their own, and in a short time there were 
few of the better class of workmen who 
were not proprietors of one machine or 
more. These were worked by the female 
members of their own families, or by 
women engaged for the purpose." The 
machines put an end to the more danger- 
ous and unhealthy processes of the work. 
Employers fitted up commodious factories 
supplied with machines, and hence has 
arisen the present factory system in the 
boot and shoe trade, a system as beneficial 
to the male and female workers as to the 
capitalist. It is estimated that now at least 
one half of the Northampton employers 
have risen by means of machine industry 
from the position of workmen. 

Cheapness, rapidity of production, and 
excellence, led to a vastly increased de- 
mand for boots and shoes. Wages were 
raised ; the work was easier ; and the 
buildings in which it was carried on were 
vastly improved. In Leicester in 1820, 



OF THE SEWING-MACHINE. 



there were one hundred and fifty opera- 
tive shoemakers ; in 185 1 there were one 
thousand three hundred and seventy-five ; 
in 1861, the machine having appeared, 
there were two thousand three hundred 
and fifteen ; and in 1871 there were five 
thousand seven hundred and three, or 
nearly four times as many as at the anti- 
machine date of 185 1. 

In 1852, says Mr. Plummer, "the aver- 
age amount of wages obtainable by an 
experienced female operator was Ss, to 
10s, per week : now the earnings of the 
female machine-workers are 14J. to i6s. 
per week — slower hands get los. and the 
best workers 20s, to 24s, The female 
* preparers ' of work get loj. . . . The ma- 
chine has within a few years been applied 
to the straw hat and bonnet industry of 
Bedfordshire, and with the best results. 
Many of the plaiters who now suffer from 
Chinese competition will, as machinists, 
obtain good wages. ... In the mantle 
trade in London, the wages of machinists 
are high, say 14J. to 20s. for middling 
hands, and 23^. to 295., and even 33J. 
for superior workwomen." 

As the general result, Mr. Plummer says 
that " taking all the various industries in 
which the machine is used, the wages of 
the machinists may be estimated as being 
from fifty to one hundred per cent, higher 
than the wages received by hand-workers 
before the machines appeared in the sev- 
eral industries." And he goes on to add, 
" The changes introduced by the machine 
have been attended with considerable ad- 
vantages as regards the physical and social 
condition of the workers. There is a 
great improvement in their health and in 
the comfort of their homes. As regards 
the shoemaking population, both male and 
female, the change amounts to an abso- 
lute revolution, and decidedly for the bet- 
ter." 

The sewing-machine has most effectu- 
ally stimulated invention in other direc- 
tions. In all leather manufactures, for ex- 
ample, the old, painful, unhealthy processes 
are now nearly all done by machinery 
driven by steam. In the stay and cloth- 
ing trades the severe labor of using heavy 
shears by hand is superseded by steam- 
driven cutters, by the aid of which one 
man does the work of twenty. The cheap- 
ness arising from these appliances has so 
enlarged the demand that the quantity of 
labor employed in the trades is tar greater 
than before. 

This is the statement of the facts, and 
there is no reason to dispute it in any es- 
sential particular. The outline amounts 



189 

to this : — About twenty-five years ago 
the articles produced in all the industries 
connected with the fabrication of sewn, or 
"made up," woven, and leather materials, 
were dear, and except in the best instances, 
of inferior quality ; and the laborers, male 
and female, but especially the latter, were 
among the worst paid, the hardest worked, 
and the most unhealthy in the country. 
A mechanical invention, called the sewing- 
machine, of moderate cost and simplicity, 
was then introduced, the objects of which 
were, by the application of ordinary labor 
in private houses or factories, to get rid of 
nearly all the irksome, slow, and unhealthy 
processes of hand-stitching, and so by rea- 
son of swiftness, exactness, and sufferior- 
ity of manufacture greatly to reduce the 
selling price of the articles offered to the 
public. The effect of this invention was 
in a few years to establish two radical im- 
provements throughout the industries in 
which it was most successful, namely, 
first, the lessened price of the commodi- 
ties to the consumer, their superior quality, 
and the circumstance that they were 
articles required by all, but especially by 
the middle and humbler classes, at once 
created an enlargement of demand so 
rapid and strong that it fully kept pace 
with the more efficient and swifter means 
of production ; second, the augmented 
gross produce arising from the de- 
cided success of the invention in render- 
ing labor more efficient, in saving time, 
and improving quality, and reducing the 
outlay and risks of capital, was divided 
between the employers and work-people 
wholly by the operation of natural causes. 
There was no interference of the legisla- 
ture on one side or the other ; and practi- 
cally there was no interference of trades' 
unions to enforce a minimum rate of 
wages, or to impose restraints on the skill, 
industry, and deserts of the individual 
male and female laborers. Everywhere 
there were inferior, middling, and superior 
laborers earning corresponding wages; 
and everywhere the skilful and handiest 
laborers passed naturally into the class of 
employers and capitalists. It was a free 
and wholesome co-operation of capital and 
labor to supply the best and cheapest 
articles to the cash demand of a vigorous 
consumption ; and the profits arising from 
the trade were divided between wages and 
capital wholly in proportion to the special 
skill and industry of the individual employ- 
ers and employed ; with the result, as we 
have seen, of raising wages from tifty to 
one hundred per cent., and adding im- 
measurably to the comfort, health, and in- 



XQO 



THE DOG OF THE BARRACKS. 



dependence of the laborers, but especially 
of the female portion of them. 

But such a result is neither more nor 
less than distribution of the proceeds of 
production of the most exact and equi- 
table kind. On a large scale the increased 
quantity of wealth arising from the inven- 
tion of the sewing-machine has been divid- 
ed precisely as — on grounds of equity — 
it is most tit and beneficial that it should 
be divided ; and this equitable and whole- 
some division has taken place as a neces- 
sary consequence of the most efficient 
methods of production being left at per- 
fect liberty, as regards both workmen and 
masters, to arrive at the cheapest means 
of commanding and stimulating consump- 
tion. If at an early or later stage of the 
establishment of the sewing-machine, it 
had been possible for the male to exclude 
the female workers ; or for the two com- 
bined to prevent the use of the machine 
in the houses of male or female workers ; 
or for any trades' union to enforce a 
minimum wage, or to impose restraints on 
individual skill and invention devoted to 
increase the gross profits — that is to say, 
the fund alone available for division be- 
tween labor and capital — it is easy to see 
that the whole march of the improvement 
would have been retarded and thwarted. 
It is clear also that the two circumstances 
which have very materially assisted the 
success of the machine, both as regards 
producers and consumers, h.ave been, 
first, the small cost of the machine itself, 
which admitted its effective use in the 
homes of the workers, and in this way has 
cheapened production by rendering of 
value the intermittent labor of whole fam- 
ilies as it could be spared, and when it 
could be easiest applied. In this respect 
the sewing machine has been the reverse 
of the former handloom. The machine 
workers have prospered because they 
could take the new invention into their 
houses without diminishing its force. The 
handloomers were superseded because the 
steam shuttle could not be made a domes- 
tic implement. Second, the eminent suit- 
ability of female labor to the sewing- 
machine has secured a class of workers 
who have had the strongest motives to 
apply whatever skill and industry they pos- 
sessed to increase their piece-work wages 
by the extent and efficiency of production. 
It may be added, indeed, that the great 
results which have been obtained are 
amongst the most cogent illustrations 
which can be found of the magical influence 
of payment by results, that is to say, of 
payment by the piece; for happily no 



other mode of payment has been possible 
for sewing-machine labor. 

The lesson of the whole of this gratify- 
ing and hopeful history is, as we said at the 
outset, that the methods of most efficient 
production are those which necessarily 
contain within themselves the methods 
of most effectual and. beneficial distribu- 
tion : in other words, if we understand 
and apply thoroughly and truly the condi- 
tions which most cheaply, rapidly, and 
constantly produce wealth, we also, and as 
a necessary, and pari passu consequence, 
understand and apply the conditions which 
ensure the distribution of that wealth 
among all the parties concerned in the 
most just and beneficial manner. So far 
philosophers and philanthropists have 
s{>ent their energies in the wrong direc- 
tion. They have sought for artificial 
means of what they considered more equal 
distribution of the products of industry, 
failing to see that in the circumstances 
and conditions which render industry on 
the largest scale most productive, there 
are native and inherent forces which link 
together production and distribution at 
every step. 



From The Leisure Hour. 
THE DOG OF THE BARRACKS. 

From a French correspondent we have 
the following : — We had for several years 
a fine dog, named Tarquin. Since his 
death he was always called Tarquin 
PAncieny to distinguish him from his suc- 
cessor, who, from his great beauty, we had 
named Tarquin le Superb, The first 
Tarquin was born and brought up in an 
artillery barrack. He was caressed, played 
with, teased, amused by all the soldiers, 
his daily companions, who, as all know, ia 
their amusements are like big children. 
His master, a sergeant-major, having com- 
pleted his term of military service, re- 
turned to his home at Nancy, and there 
sold the youno; dog to my father. Tarquin 
led a happy life with us, was caressed, and 
certainly was better fed than he had been 
in the barrack. Still, he had a clinging 
fondness for the companions of his youth, 
the artillerymen ; and although there were 
then no artillery in garrison at Nancy, 
every time that by chance an artillery sol- 
dier passed through the town, down our 
street, the poor dog rushed forth and 
affectionately caressed him, to the soldier's 
great astonishment, who, at first, did not 
know what to make of his rude gratuia- 



JAPANESE MIRRORS. 



191 



tions. My father would, from the win- 
dow, call the soldier in, offer him a glass 
of wine, and recount to him Tarquin's 
birth and bringing up in an artillery bar- 
rack. 

There were sapeurs-pompiers at Nancy, 
wearing the same uniform, black trousers, 
with a double red stripe, the only differ- 
ence being \\\2X^en grande tenue^ the pom- 
piers had a brass helmet, and th*; artillery 
a shako, but on .ordinary occasions the 
uniform was the same for both. However 
much we might be deceived by the simi- 
larity of their uniform, the good Tarquin, 
who could not read the number of their 
regiment on the* artillerymen's buttons, as 
we could, always discerned the difference. 
That was certainly very singular ; perhaps 
the cloth of iheir garments was of differ- 
ent manufacture. Something must have 
struck a dog's sense, or instinct, not no- 
ticeable to us, his superiors in knowledge. 

Tarquin often acted as our commission- 
naire. My mother, sometimes feeling 
lonely, wished to see my grandfather, and 
would call Tarquin, fastening a small mis- 
sive to his collar, then open the door and 
say to him. "F/z, chercher grand-plre.^^ 
At the end of a quarter of an hour Tarquin 
reappeared escorting him. L. H. 



From Nature. 
JAPANESE MIRRORS. 

A SHORT time ago a friend showed me 
a curious effect, which I had previously 
heard of, but had never seen. The ladies 
of Japan use, in making their toilet, a small 
round mirror about one-twelfth to one- 
eighth of an inch in thickness, made of a 
kind of speculum metal, brightly polished 
and coated with mercury. At the back 
there are usually various devices, Japanese 
or Chinese written characters, badges, etc., 
standing in strong relief, and brightly pol- 
ished like the front surface. Now if the 
direct rays of the sun are allowed to fall 
upon the front of the mirror and are then 
reflected on to a screen, in a great many 
cases, though not in all, the figures at the 
back will appear to shine through the sub- 
stance of the mirror as bright lines upon a 
moderately bright ground. 

1 have since tried several mirrors as 
sold in the shops, and in most cases the 
appearance described has been observed 
with more or less distinctness. 

I have been unable to find a satisfactory 
explanation of this fact, but on consider- 
ing the mode of manufacture I was led to 



suppose that the pressure to which the 
mirror was subjected during polishing, 
and which is greatest on the parts in relief, 
was concerned in the production of the 
figures. On putting this to the test by 
rubbing the back of the mirror with a 
blunt pointed instrument, and permitting 
the rays of the sun to be reflected from 
the front surface, a bright line appeared 
in the image corresponding to the position 
of the part rubbed. This experiment is 
quite easy to repeat, a scratch with a knife 
or with any other hard body is sufficient. 
It would seem as if the pressure upon the 
back during polishing caused some change 
in the reflecting surface corresponding to 
the raised parts whereby the amount of 
light reflected was greater ; or supposing 
that of the light which falls upon the sur- 
face, a part is absorbed and the rest re- 
flected, those parts corresponding to the 
raised portions on the back are altered 
by the pressure in such a way that less is 
absorbed, and therefore a bright image 
appears. This, of course, is not an expla- 
nation of the phenomenon, but I put it for- 
ward as perhaps indicating the direction 
in which the true explanation may be 
looked for. 

The following account of the manufac- 
ture of the Japanese mirrors is taken from 
a paper by Dr. Gecrts, read before the 
Asiatic Society of Japan, and appearing 
in their "Transactions" for 1875-76, p. 

39: — 

" For preparing the mould, which con- 
sists of two halves, put together with their 
concave surfaces, the workman first pow- 
ders a kind of rough plastic clay, and 
mixes this with levigated powder of a 
blackish * tuff-stone ' and a little charcoal 
powder and water, till the paste is plastic 
and suitable for being moulded. It is 
then roughly formed by the aid of a wood- 
en frame into square or round cakes ; the 
surface of the latter is covered with a levi- 
gated half-liquid mixture of powdered 
chamotte (old crucibles which have 
served for melting bronze or copper) and 
water. Thus well prepared, the blackish 
paste in the frame receives the concave 
designs by the aid of woodcuts, cut in re- 
lief. The two halves of the mould are 
put together in the frame and dried. Sev- 
eral of these flat moulds are then placed 
in a melting-box made of clay and cha- 
motte. This box has on the top an open- 
ing, into which the liquid bronze is poured, 
after it has been melted in small fire-proof 
clay crucibles. The liquid metal naturally 
fills all openings inside the box, and con- 
sequently also the cavities of the moulds. 



igi A DOG AIDING 

For mirrors of first quality the following 
metal mixture is used in one of the largest 
mirror fouadries ia Ki6to : — 

L«ad 5 parts. 

Tin 1$ " 

Copper 80 ■" 

For mirrors of inferior quality is taken — 

Lead 10 parts. 

Natural sulphide of lead and anti- 
Copper 80 " 

"After being cooled the melting-box 
and moulds are crushed and the mirrors 
taken away. These are then cut, scoured, 
atid tiled until the mirror is roughly fin- 
ished. They are then first polished with 
a polishinK powder called lo-no-ki, which 
consists of the levigated powder of a soft 
kind of whetstone {lo-iskt) found in Ya- 
mato and many other places. Secondly, 
the mirrors are polished with a piece of 
ch.ircoal and water, the charcoal of the 
wood ho-tiB-ki {Magnolia hypoUuca) being 
preferred as the best for this purpose. 
When the surface of the mirror is well 
pohshed it is covered with a layer of mer- 
cury amalgam, consisting of quicksilver, 
tin, and a little lead. The amalgam is 
rubbed vigorously with a piece of soft 
leather, which manipulation must be con- 
tinued for a long time until (he excess of 
mercury is expelled, and the mirror has 
got a fine, bright, reflecting surface." 

R. W. Atkinson. 

Uoivenily of Tokio, Jlpio. 



A PAutLV of lacemakers in Belgium, 
'fibding that they could not sell the prod- 
uce of their industry to so great an ad- 
vantage as in France, became anxious to 
dispose of it there, and to acquire, by that 
means, a more rapid fortune than bv sim- 
ply retailing it at home. They bad a 



IN SMUGGLING. 

young and intelligent poodle dog which 

they trained t« h.ive a thorough detesta- 
tion of custom-house officials, such as 
are encountered on the frontiers. They 
dressed up some one in that uniform, who, 
always beating and kicking the dog when- 
ever he entered the house, and ill-treating 
him in every way, incurred, verv naturally, 
poor Monton's animositv. Their object 
was, of course, to nourisn such ill-feeling 
and repugnance in the dog against any 
one wearing the French douanitr uniform, 
that he would be certain to avoid them. 
Having su-^ceeded in inspiring the hatred 
they wished in the poor, innocent, and un- 
offending Monton's breast, they next pre- 
pared alarger poodle-skin than the one he 
owned, and after winding several metres of 
valuable lace round his body, sewed the 
poodle-skin neatly and cleverly over it aJL 
Away went the master and his dog, and 
succeeded in passing the French frontier ; 
the man, it is true, was examined ; the dog 
ran off from (he people in uniform as soon 
he espied them, decamping a 



These hazardous journeys were often 
undertaken, and nothing could exceed 
(heir good fortune and their lucky escapes ; 
but their succeiiS was not destined to be 
of long duration. Upon one occasion, one 
of the junior custom-house emfiloyis no- 
ticed (he dog and advanced to play with 
him, but instead of responding to the 
proSe red caress, Monton showed nis teeth 
and slunk away, whereupon the youth 
revenged himself by throwing a large 
stone, which lamed him, and then another 
and another, until he killed the poor 
animal. Monton's master, not wishing tg 
appear too anxious about him, had walled 
on, not doubting but that his faithful com- 
panion was following him, but missing him 
at last he returned to the frontier just 
in lime (o witness the otficial's profound 
astonishment at the sight a rent in poor 
Monton's false hide had revealed to him. 
Since then, I was assured, custom-house 
officials on the frontier looked sharply 
after contraband dogs. L. H. 



LITTELL'S LIVING AGE. 



Fifth Beriei, ] 
Volume XH. 5 



No. 1728. -July 28, 1877. 



^ From Beginnin^f 

( Vol. ozxxrv. 



CONTENTS. 

I. George Sand. By Matthew Arnold, . . Fortnightly RcTnew^ , . . 195 

II. The Marquis of Lossie. By George Mac 
Donald, author of ** Malcolm," etc Con- 
clusion, Advance Sheets ^ . • . . 204 

III. Is THE Moon Dead? Comhill Magazine, . . .223 

IV. C A RITA. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of 

"Chronicles of Carlingford," " Zaidee," 

etc Part XVII., Comhill Magazine, . . . 333 

v. Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By 

William Black. Part XXII Examiner^ 251 

POETRY. 
Two Women. 

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton (Lady Stirling-Maxwell) I94 

Mary Carpenter, 194 

MlSC£LLA2fY, 255. 256 



PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY 

LITTELL & QAY, BOSTON 



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194 



TWO WOMEN. 

TWO WOMEN. 
CAROUNE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON 
(LADY STIRUNC-MAXWBLL). 

Bom, 1809. Dudf Junt 15, 1877. 

One lived for grace — one lived for good ; so 



runs, 
In brief, the record of two women's claims, 
Whose lives, unlike, closed with close-follow- 
ing suns. 
Bequeathing memories diverse as their 
fames. 

• • • 

One, the famed daughter of a famous line, 
With grace and cn^rm, with wit and beauty 
dowered. 
Yet on whose power to please, and will to 
shine. 
Some adverse star malignant influence 
-showered.- 

Her bridal* wreath was blent with weeds of 
strife : 

An ill world's ill report, by party aimed. 
Fleshed its foul shafts in her unguarded life. 

Until fair-weather friendship shrank afraid, 

And hate and envy gave their tongues free 
play 
On the proud soul that wonld not be o'er- 
borne, 
But strove to show brave face to bleakest day. 
And hid her wounds, and gave back scorn 
for scorn : 

And sang her song, and smiled her smile, and 
staunched 
Her tears to strain her children to her 
breast, 
But death's pale blight her hope's bright 
blossom blanched. 
And left her all but lone in dark unrest. 

Till time and fair life bore down ill-report. 

And grief ip patience, if not peace, was lost ; 
And she lived on, and sang, and held her 
court. 
And dwelt in memories of the loved and 
lost. 

Still beautiful, still graceful, with her voice 
Of low, sweet music, and her gift of song ; 

Tenacious of the "friendships of her choice, — 
Fast because wisely made as cherished long. 

Truest of all, the friend who, at the last. 
Gave her marred life the shelter of his name. 

And a short sunshine o'er her evening cast. 
Denied her in the morning of her fame. 

Noble of soul as beautiful, endowed 

With all that should have crowned a life 
with joy, — 

Well for her she has passed beyond the cloud. 
Tended by faithful love, to join her boy. 



MARY CARPENTER. 

Barn^ April 3, 1807. Ditd^ Jutu 14, 1877. 

Not on the heights of England's proud estate, 



Where its spoilt children keep their giddy 

round, 
The other learned to weigh i^an and man's 

fate. 
Studied life's lessons and life's labor found. 

But in a frugal, pure, and peaceful home, 
A place oT sober learning, learned to see, 

Through faith and trust in God's good time to 
come, 
That where ill is, good may, and will, yet be. 

Her parents' help, her sisters', brothers' guide, 

She grew as high of heart, as mild of mood ; 

With power o'er youth's rebelliousness and 

pride, 

A3 one that from her own youth up was 

good. 

And early fixed her mind, and chose her part. 
To work in the high faith vOhich few can feel. 

That there's a spring of good in every heart, 
So yoii have love its fountain to unseal. 

Thi^ faith it was that marked a course for her^ 

And braced her for its trouble and its toil. 
Cheered her 'gainst proofs how much the best 
may err. 
And kept her pure as snow from taint or 
soil. 

Out of the scaffold's shadow and the dark 
Of lives from youth up weaned of light and 
air, 

She gathered sinking souls into her ark 
Of love that rode the deluge of despair. 

'Twas she first drew our city waifs and strays 
Within the tending of the Christian fold, 

With eyes of love for the averted gaze 
Of a world prompt to scourge and shrill to 
scold. 

From seeds she sowed — in season mattered 
not. 

Or out — for good all seasons are the same — 
Sprang new appliances, of love begot, 

Lost lives to save, and wanderers reclaim. 

Nor at home only; when her hair was white 
She crossed the sea, on India to bestow 

The love that England prized at length aright. 
Following leads she was the first to show. 

Not from far Pisgah only did she view 
The promised land, but lived its soil to 
tread ; 
And dies beq^ueathing work for «j to do, 
While praise and blessing crown her rev- 
erend head \ 



GEORGE SAND. 



«9S 



the road passes by the village of Nohant 
The chateau of Nohant in which Madame 
Sand lived, is a plain house by the road- 
side, with a walled garden. Down in the 
meadows, not far off, flows the Indre, bor- 
dered by trees. I passed Nohant without 
stopping, at La Chatre I dined and changed 
diligence, and went on by night up the 
valley of the Indre, the ValUe-Noire, past 
Ste. Sdv^re to Boussac. At Ste. Sdv^re 
the' Indre is quite a small stream. In the 
darkness we quitted its valley, and when 
day broke we were in the wilder and barer 
country of La Marche, with Boussac be- 
fore us and its high castle on a precipitous 
rock over the Little Creuse. That day 
and the next I wandered through a silent 
country of heathy and ferny landes^ a re- 
gion of granite stones, holly, and broom, 
of copsewood and great chestnut-trees ; a 
region of broad light, and fresh breezes, 
and wide horizons. I visited the Pierres 
Jaundtres, I stood at sunset on the 
platform of Toulx Ste. Croix, by the 
scrawled and almost effaced stone lions — 
a relic, it is said, of the English rule — 
and gazed on the blue mountains of Au- 
vergne filling the distance, and, south- 
eastward of them, in a still further and 
fainter distance, on what seemed to be the 
mountains over Le Puy and the high val- 
ley of the Loire. 

From Boussac I addressed to Madame 
Sand the sort of letter of which she must 
in her lifetime have had scores, a letter 
conveying to her, in bad French, the hom- 
age of a youthful and enthusiastic foreigner 
who had read her works with delight. She 
received the infliction good-naturedly, for 
on my return to La ChAtre I found a mes- 
sage left at the inn by a servant from 
Nohant that Madame Sand would be glad 
to see me if I called. The midday break- 
fast at Nohant was not yet over when I 
reached the house, and I found a large 
party assembled. I entered with some 
trepidation, as well I might, considering 
how I had got there ; but the simplicity of 
Madame Sand's manner put me at ease in 
a moment She named some of those 
present ; amongst them were her son and 
daughter, the Maurice and Solange so 
familiar to us from her books, and Chopin 
or two before reaching the latter place, | with his wonderful eyes. There was at 



From The Fortnightly Review. 
GEORGE SAND. 

The months go round, and anniversa- 
ries return ; on the ninth of June George 
Sand had been dead just one year. She 
was t>orn in 1804 ; she was almost seventy- 
two years old when she died. She came 
to Paris after the revolution of 1830, with 
her " Indiana " written, and began her life 
of independence, her life of authorship, 
her life as George Sand. She continued 
at work till she died. For forty-five years 
she was writing and publishing, and filled 
Europe with her name. 

It seems to me but the other day that 
I saw her, yet it was in the August of 
1846, more than thirty years ago. I saw 
her in her own Berry, at Noliant, where 
her childhood and youth were passed, 
where she returned to live after she be- 
came famous, where she died and has now 
her grave. There must be many who, 
after reading her books, have felt the 
same desire which in those days of my 
youth, in 1846, took me to Nohant — the 
desire to see the country and the places of 
which the books that so charmed us were 
full. Those old provinces of the centre of 
France, primitive and slumbering — Berry, 
La Marche, Bourbonnais ; those sites and 
streams in them, of name once so indiffer- 
ent to us, but to which George Sand gave 
such a music for our ear — La Ch^tre, 
Ste. S^v6re, the ValUe-Noire^ the Indre, 
the Creuse ; how many a reader of George 
Sand must have desired, as I did, after 
frequenting them so much in thought, 
fairly to set eyes upon them. I had been 
reading " JeanneJ^ I made up my mind 
to go and see Toulx Ste. Croix and Bous- 
sac, and the Druidical stones on Mont 
Barlot, the Pierres Jaundtres, I re- 
member looking out Toulx in Cassini*s 
great map at the Bodleian Library. The 
railway through the centre of France went 
in those days no farther than Vierzon. 
From Vierzon to ChAieauroux one trav- 
elled by an ordinary diligence, from Chd- 
teauroux to La Chitre by a humbler dili- 
gence, from La Ch&tre to Boussac by the 
humblest diligence of all. At Boussac 
diligence ended, and patache began. Be* 
twcen Chdteauroux and La Ch&trc, a mile 



196 

that time nothing astonishing in Madame 
Sand's appearance. She was not in man's 
clothes, she wore a sort of costume not 
impossible, I should think (although on 
these matters I speak with hesitation), to 
members of the fair sex at this hour 
amongst ourselves, as an out-door dress 
for the country or for Scotland. She made 
me sit by her and poured out for me the 
insipid and depressing beverage, boisson 
fade et m^lancolt'que, as Balzac called it, 
for which English people are thought 
abroad to be always thirsting — tea. She 
conversed of the country through which I 
had been wandering, of the Berry peas- 
ants and their mode of life, of Switzerland 
whither I was going ; she touched politely, 
by a few questions and remarks, upon 
England and things and persons English 

— upon Oxford and Cambridge, Byron, 
Bulwer. As she spoke, her eyes, head, 
bearing, were all of them striking ; but the 
main impression she made was an im- 
pression of what I have already mentioned 

— an impression of simplicity, frank, cor- 
dial simplicity. After breakfast she led 
the way into the garden, asked me a few 
kind questions about myself and my plans, 
gathered a flower or two and gave them to 
me, shook hands heartily at the gate, and 
I saw her no more. In 1859 M. Michelet 
gave me a letter to her, which would have 
enabled me to present myself in more reg- 
ular fashion. Madame Sand was then in 
Paris. But a day or two passed before I 
could call, and when I called, Madame 
Sand had left Paris and gone back to No- 
hant. The impression of 1846 has re- 
mained my single impression of her. 

Of her gaze, form, and speech, that one 
impression is enough ; better perhaps 
than a mixed impression from seeing her 
at sundry times and after successive 
changes. But as the first anniversary of 
her death draws near there arises ao:ain a 
desire which I felt when she died, the 
desire not indeed to take a critical survey 
of her — very far from it. I feel no incli- 
nation at all to go regularly through her 
productions, to classify and value them one 
by one, to pick out from them what the 
English public may most \\kh, or to pre- 
sent to that public, for the most part igno- 
rant of George Sand and for the most 



GEORGE SAND. 



part indifferent fo her, a full history and a 
judicial estimate of the woman and of her 
writings. But I desire to recall to my 
own mind, before the ocaasion offered by 
her death passes quite away — to recall 
and collect the elements of that powerful 
total impression which, as a writer, she 
made upon me ; to recall and collect them, 
to bring them distinctly into view, to feel 
them in all their depth and power once 
more. What I here attempt is not for the 
benefit of the indifferent ; it is for my own 
satisfaction, it is for myself. But perhaps 
those for whom George Sand has been a 
friend and a power will find an interest in 
following me. 

Yes ; and it is here that one should 
speak of her in this review, not dominated 
by the past, not devoted to things estab- 
lished, not over-occupied with theology, 
but in search of some more free and wide 
conceptions of human life, and turned 
towards the future and the unrealized. 
George Sand felt the poetry of the past, 
she had no hatreds ; the furies, the follies, 
the self-deceptions of secularist and revo- 
lutionist fanatics filled her in her latter 
years with pity, sometimes with dismay ; 
but still her place is with the party and 
propaganda of organic change. For any 
party tied to the past, for any party, even, 
tied to the present, she is too new, too 
bold, too uncompromisingly sincere. 

■ Le sentiment de la vie idiale, qui n'^esi 
autre que la vie normale telle que nous 
sommes appelis d la connattre — " the sen- 
timent of the ideal life, which is none 
other than man's normal life as we shall 
one day know it " — those words from one 
of her last publications give the ruling 
thought of George Sand, the ground-w^- 
tive, as they say in music, of all her 
strain. It is as a personage inspired by 
this motive that she interests us. The 
English public conceives of her as of a 
novel-writer who wrote stories more or 
less interesting; the earlier ones objec- 
tionable and dangerous, the later ones, 
some of them unexceptionable and fit to 
be put into the hands of the youth of both 
sexes. With such a conception of George 
Sand, a story of hers like ^^ Cofisuelo*^ 
comes to be elevated in England into quite 



GEORGE SAND. igy 

an undue relative importance, and to pass readers likewise. It passes away and 

with very many people for her typical does not return ; yet those who, amid the 

work, displaying all that is really valuable agitations, more or less stormy, of their 

and significant in the author. ^^ Consuelo^^ youth, betook themselves to the early 

is a charming story. But George Sand is works of George Sand, may in later life 

something more than a maker of charming cease to read them, indeed, but they can 

stories, and only a portion of her is shown no more forget them than they can forget 

in '^^ Constiglo" She is more, likewise, ^^Werther,^^ George Sand speaks some- 

than a creator of characters. She has where of her " days of * Corinne,'' " Days 

created, with admirable truth to nature, of ''^ Valentine^'' many of us may in like 

characters most attractive and attaching, manner say — days of " K^zA?w//>/^," days of 

such as Edm^e, Genevieve, Germain. But " Lilia " days never to return ! They are 

she is not adequately expressed by them, gone, we shall read the books no more, and 

We do not know her unless we feel the yet how ineffaceable is their impression ! 

spirit which goes through her work as a How the sentences from George Sand's 

whole. In order to feel this spirit it is works of that period still linger in our 

not, indeed, necessary to read all that she memory and haunt the ear with their 

ever produced. Even three or four only out cadences! Grandiose and moving, they 

of her many books might suffice to show her come, those cadences, like the sighing of 

to us, if they were well chosen ; let us say, the wind through the forest, like the 

the ^^Lettres d'un VoyageuKy^ ^^Mauprat,^' breaking of the waves on the seashore. 

^^Franqois le Champig^ and a story which I L^lia in her cell on the mountain of the 

was glad to see Mr.^^ers, in his appre- Camaldoli — 
dative notice of Madame Sand, single out 

for praise, " Valvldrc^ In these may be , f ?>'!' ^J^y^ forsaken ; spirit of the days of 

found all the principal elements of their °!^! J^^P^^ ^^^ ^'^'l ^J^' 'f^^^ ^g^'"^' ^^c 

^y 1 ^ ' ^x^ c J divme inspiration ; broken lyre, mute instru- 

author's strain: the cry of agony and ^^„^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^j^^ ^^^,> ^^ .^ .^ 

revolt, the trust in nature and beauty, the heard them, could not understand, but yet in 

aspiration towards a purged and renewed ^hose depth the eternal harmony murmurs 

human society. Of George Sand's strain imprisoned ; priestess of death, I, I who feel 

during forty years, these are the grand and know that before now I have been Pythia, 

elements. Now it is one of them which have wept before now, before now have spoken, 

appears most prominently, now it is an- but who cannot recollect, alas, cannot utter 

other. The cry of agony and revolt is in ^^^ word of healing ! Yes, yes ; I remember 

her earlier work, and passes away in her ^^^ cavern of truth and the access of revela- 

later. But in the evolution of these three ^»°" • but the word of human destiny, I have 

elements -the passion of agony and re- forgotten it; but the talisman of deliverance, 

1^ ^v 1 ; • r 7 J £ *t >s lost from my hand. And vet, indeed, 

volt, the consolation from nature and from ^„^. ^„ , .. .. t j i. « . 

- ' ^, .J . . I , . much, much have I seen; and when suffcrine 

beauty, the ideas of social renewal -in presses me sore, when indignation takes hold 

the evolution of these is George Sand and of me, when I feel Prometheus wake up in mv 

George Sand's life and power. Through heart and beat his puissant wings against the 

their evolution her constant motive de- stone which confines him, oh I then, in prey 

Clares and unfolds itself, that motive to a frenzy without a name, to a despair with- 

which we set forth above : " The sentiment out bounds, I invoke the unknown master 

of the ideal life, which is none other than and friend who might illumine my spirit and 

man's normal life as we shall one day set free my tongue ; but I grope in darkness, 

know it.'* This is the motive and through ^"^ *"y ^'"^^^ ^^^^ g^'^^P nothing save delusive 

these elements is its evolution ; an evolu- shadows. And for ten thousand years, as the 

J "xL A\. A sole answer to mv cries, as the sole comfort in 

tion pursued, moreover, with the most un- ^ , ^ . ' , . ^""""i^t m 

r ... I ^u * u I * • "*y agonv, I hear astir, over this earth accurst, 

failing resolve, the most absolute sm- ,J^ 5«..;^,;,.:«„ o«k V • « * * ^v.u'ai* 

o ' the despairing sob of impotent agony. For 

^^H/ , - , , ten thousand years I have cried in infinite 

The hour of agony and revolt passed space, Trufkf truth I For ten thousand 

away for George Sand, as it passed away years infinite space keeps answering me, De^ 

for Goethe, as it passes away for their sire^ desire, O Sibyl forsaken I O mute 



GEORGE SAND. 



198 

Pvthia ! dash then thy head against the rocks 
of thy cavern, and mingle thy raging blood 
with the foam of the seal for thou dcemest 
thyself to have possessed the almighty Word, 
and these ten thousand years thou art seeking 
him in vain. 

Or Sylvia's cry over Jacques by his gla- 
cier in the Tyrol — 

When such a man as thou art is born into a 
world where he can do no true service, when, 
with the soul of an apostle and the courage of 
a martyr, he has simply to push his way among 
the heartless and aimless crowds which vege- 
tate without living, the atmosphere suffocates 
him and he dies. Hated by sinners, the mock 
of fools, disliked by the envious, abandoned 
by the weak, what can he do but return to 
God, weary with having labored in vain, in 
Borrow at having accomplished nothing ? The 
world remains in all its vileness and in all its 
hatcfulness ; this is what men call " the tri- 
umph of good sense over enthusiasm." 

Or Jacques himself, and his doctrine — 

Life is arid and terrible, repose is a dream, 
prudence is useless ; mere reason alone serves 
simply to dry up the heart ; there is but one 
virtue, the eternal sacrifice of one's self. 

Or George Sand speakinoj in her own 
person, in the " Lettresd^un Voyageur " — 

Ah no, I was not born to be a poet, I was 
born to love. It is the misfortune of my 
destiny, it is the enmity of others, which have 
made mc a wanderer and an artist. What I 
wanted was to live a human life ; I had a heart, 
it has been torn violently from my breast. All 
that has been left me is a head, a head full of 
noise and pain, of horrible memories, of im- 
ages of woe, of scenes of outrage. And be- 
cause in writing stories to earn my bread I 
could not help remembering my sorrows, 
because I had the audacity to say that in mar- 
ried life there were to be found miserable 
bcincjs, by reason of the weakness which is 
enjoined upon the woman, by reason of the 
brutality which is permitted to the man, by 
reason of the turpitudes which society covers 
and protects with a veil, I am pronounced im- 
moral, I am treated as if I were the enemy of 
the human race. 

And if only, alas, together with her hon- 
esty and her courage, she could feel that 
she had also light and hope and power; 
that she was able to lead those whom she 
loved and who looked to her for guidance ! 
But no ; her own very children, witnesses 
of her suffering, her uncertainty, her strug- 
gles, her evil report, may come to doubt 
her. 

My poor children, my own flesh and blood, 
will perhaps turn upon me and say : " You are 
leading us wrong, you mean to ruin us as well 
as yourself. Are you not unhappy, reprobated, 



evil spoken of? What have you gained by 
these unequal struggles, by these much trum- 
peted duels of yours with Custom and Belief^ 
Let us do as others do ; let us get what is to 
be got from this easy and tolerant world." 

This is what they will say to me. Or at 
best, if, out of tenderness for me, or from their 
own natural disposition, they give ear to my 
words and believe mc, whitner shall I guide 
them? Into what abysses shall we go and 
plunge ourselves, we three ? — for we shall be 
our own three upon earth, and not one soul 
with us. What shall I reply to them if they 
come and say to me, ** Yes, life is unbearable 
in a world like this. Let us die together. 
Show us the path of Bernica, or the lake of 
St^nio, or the glaciers of Jacques." 

But the failure of the impassioned seek- 
ers of a new and better world proves noth- 
ing for the world as it is. Ineffectual 
they may be, but the world is still more 
ineffectual, and it is the world's course 
which is doomed to ruin, not theirs. 
" What has it done," exclaims George 
Sand in her preface to Gu^rin's " Ceti' 
tatire^^ " what has it^ done for our moral 
education, and whaM's it doing for our 
children, this soci^y shielded with such 
care ? " Nothing. Those whom it calls 
vain complainers and rebels and madmen, 
may reply : — 

Suffer us to bewail our martyrs, poets with- 
out a country that we are, forlorn singers, well 
versed in the causes of their misery and of our 
own. You do not comprehend the malady 
which killed them ; they themselves did not 
comprehend it. If one or two of us at the 
present day open our eyes to a new light, is it 
not bv a strance and unaccountable good 
proviclence, and nave we not to seek our grain 
of faith in stonn and darkness, combated bv 
doubt, irony, the absence of all sympathy, all 
example, all brotherly aid, all protection and 
countenance in high places ? Trj' yourselves 
to speak to your brethren heart to heart, con- 
science to conscience! Try it! — but you 
cannot, busied as you are with watching and 
patching up in all directions your dykes which 
the flood is invading ; the material existence 
of this society of yours absorbs all your care 
and requires more than all your efforts. 
Meanwhile the powers of human thought are 
growing into strength and rise on all sides 
around you. Amongst these threatening ap- 
paritions, there are some which fade away and 
re-enter the darkness, because the hour of life 
has not yet struck, and the fiery spirit which 
quickened them could strive no longer with 
the horrors of this present chaos ; but there 
are others that can wait, and you will find 
them confronting you, up and alive, to say, 
" You have al lowed the death of our brethren, 
and we, we do not mean to die." 

She did not, indeed. How should she 
faint and fail before her time because of 



GEORGE SAND. 



199 



a world out of joint, because of the reign 
of stupidityi because of the passions of 
youth, because of the difficulties and dis- 
gusts of married life in the native seats of 
the homme scnsuel moyen^ the average 
sensual man, she who could feel so well 
the power of those eternal consolers, 
nature and beauty ? From the very first 
they introduce. a note of suavity in her 
strain of erief and passion. Who can 
forget the lanes and meadows of " Valeit' 
tine " ? George Sand is one of the few 
French writers who keep us closely, 
truly intimate with rural nature. She 
gives us the wild-flowers by their actual 
names — snowdrop, primrose, columbine, 
iris, scabious. Nowhere has she touched 
her native Berry and its little-known land- 
scape, its campagnes ignories^ with a love- 
lier charm than in ^'^ Valentine, ^^ The 
winding and deep lanes running out of 
the high road on either side, the fresh and 
calm spots they take us to, " meadows of a 
tender green, plaintive brooks, clumps of 
alder and mountain ash, a whole world 
of suave and pastoral nature," — how 
delicious it all is ! The grave and silent 
peasant whose very dog will hardly deign 
to bark at you, the great white ox, " the 
inevitable dean of these pastures," staring 
solemnly at you from the thicket; the 
farmhouse "with its avenue of maples, 
and the Indre, here hardly more than a 
bright rivulet, stealing along through 
rusnes and yellow iris in the field below " 
— who, I say, can forget them? And 
that one lane in especial, the lane where 
Ath^naYs puts her arm out of the side 
window of the rustic carriage and gathers 
May from the overarching hedge — that 
lane with its startled blackbirds, and hum- 
ming insects, and limpid water, and sway- 
ing water-plants, and shelving gravel, and 
yellow wagtails hopping halt-pert, half- 
frightened, on the sand — that lane with 
rushes, cresses, and mint below, honey- 
suckle and traveller's-joy above — how 
fladly might one give all that strangely 
English picture in English, if the charm 
of Madame Sand's language did not here 
defy translation ! Let us try something 
less difficult, and yet something where we 
may still have her in this her beloved 
world of " simplicity, and sky, and fields, 
and trees, and peasant life, peasant life 
looked at, by preference, on its good and 
sound side." Voyez done la simpliciti^ 
vous autreSf voyez le ciel et les champs, 
etles arbresj et les pay sans, surtout dans 
ce quHls ont de ban et de vrau 

The introduction to ^^ La Mare au 
DiabU^^ will give us what we want. 



George Sand has been looking at an en- 
. graving of Holbein's " Laborer." An old, 
thick-set peasant, in rags, is driving his 
plough in the midst of a field. All around 
spreads a wild landscape, dotted with a 
few poor huts. The sun is setting behind 
a hill ; the day of toil is nearly over. It 
has been hard ; the ground is rugged and 
stony, the laborer's horses are out skin 
and bone, weak and exhausted. There is 
but one alert figure, the skeleton Death, 
who with a whip skips nimbly along at the 
horses' side and urges the team. Under 
the picture is a quotation in old French, 
to the effect that after the laborer's life of 
travail and service, in which he has to 
gain his bread by the sweat of his brow, 
here comes death to fetch him away. And 
from so rude a life does Death take him, 
says George Sand, that Death is hardly 
unwelcome ; and in another composition 
by Holbein, where men of almost every 
condition — popes, sovereigns, lovers, 
gamblers, monks, soldiers — are taunted 
with their fear of death, and do indeed see 
his approach with terror, Lazarus alone is 
easy and composed, and sitting on his 
dunghill at the rich man's door, tells death 
that he does not mind him. 

With her thoughts full of Holbein's 
mournful picture, George Sand goes out 
into the fields of her own Berry. 

My walk was by the border of a field which 
some peasants were getting ready for being 
sown presently. " The space to be ploughed 
was wide, as in Holbein's picture. The land- 
scape was vast also ; the great lines of green 
which it contained were Just touched with 
russet by the approach of autumn ; on the 
rich brown soil recent rain had left, in a good 
many furrows, lines of water, which shone in 
the sun like silver threads. The day was clear 
and soft, and the earth gave out a light smoke 
where it had been freshly laid open by the 
ploughshare. At the top of the field an old 
man, whose broad back and severe face were 
like those of the old peasant of Holbein, but 
whose clothes told no tale of poverty, was 
gravely driving his plough of an antique 
shape, drawn by two tranquil oxen, with coats 
of a pale bu£f, real patriarchs of the fallow, 
tall of make, somewhat thin, with long and 
blunt horns, the kind of old workmen who by 
long habit have got to be brothers to one 
another, as in our countrj'-side they are called, 
and who, if one loses the other, refuse to work 
with a new comrade, and fret themselves to 
death. People unacquainted with the country 
will not believe in this affection of the ox for 
his yoke-fellow. They should come and see 
one of the poor beasts in a corner of his stable^ 
thin, wasted, lashing with his restless tail his 
lean flanks, sniffing with uneasiness and dis- 
dain at the provender offered to him, his eyes 



aoo GEORGE SAND. 

fDreverliiniedtoirard8tbe*Ubledoor,»cratch- pandise of earth, the opright and homaa- 

jng with his fool Ibe empty place left at his hearted artist feels a trouble in (he midst of 

aide, Bmetling the yokes and bands nhich his his enjoynienl. The happy day will be when 

companion has worn, and incessantly calling mind, heart, and hands shall be alive together, 

for hini with piteous lowings. The oi-herd shall work in concert ; when there shall be a 

will tell you : " There is a pair of oxen gone '. harmony between God's munificence and m.in's 

his brolhtr is dead, and this one will work no delight in it. Then, instead of the piteous 

more. He ought to be Eattened for killing ; and frightful figure of Death, skipping whip 

but one cannot get him to eat, and in a short in haniT by the peasant's side in the held, the 

time he will have starved himself to death." atlegoricai painter will place there a radiant 

Ho»t^,hM„ddo,el.is,,hi.co»,a., j;S,X".Lr, ISlLr" "" "'""'' 

Of George Sand with country things, with And the dream of a kindly, free, poetic. 

the hfe of nature in its vast plenitude and laborious, simple existence for the tiller of the 

pathos I And alwa^'S in the end the hu- field is not so hard torealiie that it must be 

man interest, as is right, emerges and pre- sent away into the world of chimasrus. Vir- 

dominates. What is the central figure in g'l's sweet and sad cry : "O happy peasants, 

the fresh and calm rural world of George 'f "«y but knew their own blessings ! " i* a 

Sand? It is the peasant. And what is regret ; but like all regrete, it is at the same 

the peasant? He is France, life, the "">« a predict.oa The day will comewhen 

t „ .„j ,u;, ;„ »!,„ ,.,_„.^i. «( the laborer may be also an artist, not in the 

future. And this is the strength of ^„„ ^ rendering nature's beauty, a matter 

George Sand, and of her second move- „hich will be then of much less imponance. 

ment, after the first movement of energy but in the sense of feeling it. Does not this 

and revolt was over, towards nature and mysterious intuition of poetic beauty exist in 

beauty, towards the country, primitive life, him already in the form of instinct and of 

the peasant. She regarded not with the vague reverie? 

selfish and solitary joy of the artist who ^ „is,3 [„ him, too, adds Madame 

but seeks to appropriate them for his own g^^j ;„ j^e form of that nostalgia, that 

purposes, she regarded them as a treasure home-sickness, which forever pursues the 

of immense and hitherto unknown appli- „^awae^ French peasant if you transplant 

cation, as avast power of healing and i,im. The peasant has, then, the elements 

delight for all, and for the peasant first ^f ^^^ poetic sense and of iU high and 

and foremost. Yes, she cries, the simple pure satisfactions. 
life IS the true one ! but the peasant, the 

great organ of that life, " the minister in But one part of the enjoyment which we 

that vast temple which only the sky is P?=«" is wanting tt) him. a pure and lofty 

vast enough to embrace," the peasant is Pleasure which is surely h.s due tnimster that 

^ J '^ . , -1 J '■!■■. i he IS in that vast temple which only the sky is 

not doomed to toil and moi n 't forever, vast enough to emhraae. He has not the con- 

overdone and unawakened, hke Holbein's ^t>«i knowledge of his sentiment Those 

laborer, and to h.ive for his best comfort who have sentenced him to servitude from his 

the thought that death will set hint free, mother's womb, not being able to debar him 

JVon,naus n'avons plus affairt A la morl, from reverie, have debarred him from re- 

tnais ct la vie. " Our business henceforth flection. 

is not with death but with life." And joy Well, for all that, taking the peasant as he 

is the great lifter of men, the great un- '»• incomplete and seemingly condemned to an 

folder. Ilfaut qm la vit soil bonm afin "=™' ,'^'"^t^f ^,1 =:!' ^"f„ 1"'™ iT™ hit 

.«'./^..«/j^.j^ Y'*'''^r'•■'^^'^• Ssiln''j.rk,;s:;^e£ c ^^^^''z^t 

ful, life must be felt to be a blessing." n,^„[_ ^^ „„( „te yourselves so high above 

Nature is eternally young, beautiful, bounti- ■"'"■.• "*">' °^ ??,", ^^°^^^m^ 'j^' VO" have 

ful. She pours out' icauly and poet^ for all '" 'mprescriptible r ght to his obedience, for 

that live, she pours it out' on all plants, and L"" yourselves are the m(»t incomplete and 

.he plant's are Emitted to expand I it freely. ^ Tro^ o""^"- J^\r "t"7al 

^"a^nCrb^e^ltter^^k"/ il^^^ayTom lie"': ''Shts of yours. 

The happiest of men would be he, who, pos- In all this we are passing from the sec- 

sessing the science of his labor and working ond element in George Sand to the third 

with his hands, earning his comfort and his _|,er aspiration for a social new birth, a 

freedom by the exercise of his 'nwlhgent ^^aissance sociaU. It is eminently the 

force, found tune to live by the heart and by ... , p--.. . ,, „^, ),_„ Upr fp. 

the brain, to understand his own work and to ?«al <" '^"."'L^ ■'. ,,"^^.. ./.*■ • ."^"^ ? 

love the work of God. The artist has satis- ligion connected itself with this idea^. In 

factions of this kind in the contemplation and ^^^ convent where she was brought up 

reproduction of nature's beauty ; but when he she had in youth had an awakening of fer- 

fKt» the affliction of those who people thia vent mystical {Hety in the Catholic form. 



GEORGE SAND. 



201 



That form she could not keep. Popular 
religion of all kinds, with its deep internal 
impossibilities, its *' heaven and hell serv- 
ing to cover the illogical manifestations of 
the Divinity's apparent designs respect- 
ing us," its " God made in our image, silly 
and malicious, vain and puerile, irritable 
or tender, after our fashion,*' lost all sort 
of hold upon her. 

Communion with such a God is impossible 
to me, I confess it. He is wiped out from my 
memory ; there is no corner where I can find 
him an^ more. Nor do I find him out of 
doors either ; he is not in the fields and waters, 
he is not in the starry sky. No, nor yet in 
the churches where men bow themselves ; it is 
an extinct message, a dead letter, a thought 
that has done its day. Nothing of this belief, 
nothing of this God, subsists in me any longer. 

She refused to lament over the loss, to 
esteem it other than a benefit 

It is an addition to our stock of light, this 
detachment from the idolatrous conception of 
religion. It is no loss of the religious sense, 
as the persisters in idolatry maintain. It is 
quite the contrar}% it is a restitution of alle- 
eiance to the true Divinity. It is a step made 
m the direction of this Divinity, it is an ab- 

i'uration of the dogmas which did him dis- 
lonor. 

She does not attempt to give of this 
Divinity an account much more precise 
than that which we have in Wordsworth 
— " a presence that disturbs me with the 
joy of animating thoughts. ^^ 

Everything is divine [she says] even matter ; 
everything is superhuman, even man. God is 
everywhere ; he is in me in a measure propor- 
tioned to the little that I am. My present life 
separates me from him just in the degree 
determined by the actual state of childhood of 
our race. Let me content myself, in all my 
seeking to feel after him and to possess of him 
as much as this imperfect soul can take in, 
with the intellectual sense I have. 

And she concludes — 

The day will come when we shall no more 
talk about God idly, nay, when we shall talk 
about him as little as possible. We shall 
cease to set him forth dogmatically, to dispute 
about his nature. We shall put compulsion 
on no one to pray to him, we shall leave the 
whole business of worship within the sanctuary 
of each man*s conscience. And this will hap- 
pen when we are really religious. 

Meanwhile the sense of this spirit or 
presence which animates us, the sense of 
the divine, is our stronghold and our con- 
solation. A man may say 'of it, " It comes 
not by my desert, but the atom of divine 
tense given to me nothing can rob me of." 



Divine sense — the phrase is a vague one ; 
but it stands to Madame Sand for that to 
which are to be referred "all the best 
thoughts and the best actions of life, suf- 
fering endured, duty achieved, whatever 
purifies our existence, whatever vivifies 
our love." 

Madame Sand is a Frenchwoman, and 
her religion is therefore, as I have said, 
with peculiar fervency social. Always she 
has before her mind "the natural law 
which will have it (the italics are her own) 
that the species man cannot subsist and 
prosper but by association^^ Whatever 
else we may be in creation, we are, first 
and foremost, " at the head of the species 
which are called by instinct and led by 
necessity to the life of association^^ The 
word love^ the great word, as she justly ^ 
says, of the New Testament, acquires 
from her social enthusiasm a peculiar sig- 
nificance to her. 

The word is a great one, because it involves 
infinite consequences. To love means to help 
one another, to have joint aspirations, to act 
in concert, to labor for the same end, to de- 
velop to its ideal consummation the fraternal 
instinct, thanks to which mankind have brought 
the earth under their dominion. Every time 
that he has been false to this instinct which is 
his law of life, his natural destiny, man has 
seen his temples crumble, his societies dis- 
solve, his intellectual sense go wrong, his 
moral sense die out. The future is founded 
on love. 

So long as love is thus spoken of in the 
general, the ordinary serious Englishman 
will have no difficulty in inclining himself 
with respect at what Madame Sand sa)rs 
of it. But when he finds that love implies, 
with her, social equality, he will begin to 
be staggered. And in truth for almost 
every Englishman Madame Sand's strong 
language about equality, and about France 
as the chosen vessel for exhibiting it, will 
sound exaggerated. " The human ideal," 
she says, " as well as the social ideal, is 
to achieve equality." France, which has 
made equality its rallying cry, is therefore 
"the nation which loves and is loved," 
la nation qui aime et qu*on aime. The 
republic of equality is in her eyes "an 
ideal, a philosophy, a religion." She in- 
vokes the " holy aoctrine of social liberty 
and fraternal equality, ever reappearing as 
a ray of love and truth amidst the storm." 
She calls it " the goal of man and the law 
of the future." She thinks it the secret 
of the civilization of France, the most civ- 
ilized of nations. Amid the disasters of 
the late war she cannot forbear a cry of 
astonishment at the neutral nations, insenf- 



2oa 



GEORGE SAND. 



sibles d Vigorgement d^une civilisatiDn 
comme la ndtre^ " looking on with insen- 
sibility while a civilization such as ours 
has its throat cut." Germany, with its 
stupid ideal of corporalism and Kruppism^ 
IS contrasted with France, full of social 
dreams, too civilized for war, incapable of 
planning and preparing war for twenty 
years, she is so incapable of hatred — nous 
sommes si incapables de hair. We seem 
to be listening, not to George Sand, but to 
M. Victor Hugo, half genius half charla- 
tan; to M. Victor Hugo, or even to one of 
those French declaimers in whom we come 
down to no genius and all charlatan. 
. The forms of such outbursts as we have 
quoted will always be distasteful to an 
•EngKshman. It is to be remembered that 
they came from Madame Sand under the 
pressure and anguish of the terrible calam- 
ities of 1870. But what we are most con- 
cerned with, and what Englishmen in gen- 
eral regard too little, is the degree of truth 
contained in these allegations that France 
is the most civilized of nations, and that 
she is so, above all, by her " holy doctrine 
of equality." How comes the idea to be 
so current, and to be passionately believed 
in, as we have seen, by such a woman as 
George Sand? It was so passionately 
believed in by her, that when one seeks, 
as I am now seeking, to recall her image, 
the image is incomplete if the passionate 
belief is kept hidden. 

I will not, with my scanty space, now dis- 
cuss the belief, but I will seek to indicate 
how it must have commended itself, I 
think, to George Sand. I have somewhere 
called France " the country of Europe 
where the people is most alive. *^ The peo- 
ple is what interested George Sand. And 
in France the people is, above all, the peas- 
ant. The workman in Paris or in other 
great towns of France may afford material 
for such pictures as those which M. Zola 
has lately given us in ** nAssommoir^^ pic 
tures of a kind long ago labelled by Ma- 
dame Sand as " the literature of mysteries 
of iniquity^ which men of talent and im- 
agination try to bring into fashion." But 
the real people in France, the foundation 
of things there, both in George Sandys 
eyes and in reality, is the peasant. The 
peasant was the object of Madame Sand's 
fondest predilections in the present, and 
happiest hopes in the future. The Revo- 
lution and its doctrine of equality had 
made the French peasant. What wonder, 
then, if she saluted the doctrine as a holy 
and paramount one ? 

And the French peasant is really, so far 
as I can see, the largest and strongest 



element of soundness which the body 
social of any European nation possesses. 
To him is due that astonishing recovery 
which France has made since her defeat, 
and which George Sand predicted in the 
very hour of ruin. Yes, in 1870 she pre- 
dicted ce riveil gifUral qui va suivre, 
d la grande surprise des autres nations, 
Pespcce d^agonie oi^ elles nous voient 
tombis, " the general arising which, to the 
astonishment of the other nations, is about 
to follow the sort of agony in which they 
now see us lying." To the condition, 
character, and qualities of the French 
peasant this recovery is in the main due. 
His material well-being is generally known. 
M. de Laveleye, the well-known econo- 
mist, a Belgian and a Protestant, says that 
France, being the country of Europe where 
the soil is more divided than anywhere 
except in Switzerland and Norway, is at 
the same time the country where well- 
being is most widely spread, where wealth 
has of late years increased most, and 
where population is least outrunning the 
limits which, for the comfort and progress 
of the working-classes themselves, seem 
necessary. George Sand could see, of 
course, tne well-being of the French peas- 
ant, for we can all see it. 

But there is more. George Sand was a 
woman, with a woman's ideal of gentle- 
ness, of " the charm of good manners," as 
essential to civilization. She has some- 
where spoken admirably of the variety and 
balance of forces which go to make up 
true civilization ; " certain forces of weak- 
ness, docility, attractiveness, suavity, are 
here just as real forces as forces of vigor, 
encroachment, violence, or brutality." 
Yes, as t^tA forces; because human nature 
reouires them, and, often as they may be 
baffled, and slow as may be the process of 
their asserting themselves, mankind is not 
satisfied with its own civilization, and 
keeps fidgeting at it and altering it again 
and again, until room is made for them. 
George Sand thought the French people 
— meaning principally, again, by the 
French people the people properly so 
called, the peasant — she thought it ** the 
most kindly, the most amiable, of all 
peoples." Nothing is more touching than 
to read in her " Journal^'* written in 1870, 
while she was witnessing what seemed to 
be " the agony of the Latin races," and 
undergoing what seemed to be the process 
of "d)ing in a general death of one's 
family, one's country, and one's nation," 
how constant is her defence of the peo- 
ple, the peasant, against her Republican 
friends. Her Republican friends were 



GEORGE SAND. 



203 



furious with the peasant ; accused him of 
stolidity, cowardice, waat of patriotism ; 
accused him of having giving them the 
empire, with all its vileness; wanted to 
take away from him the suffrage. Again 
and again does George Sand take up his 
defence, and warn her friends of the folly 
and danger of their false estimate of him. 
" The contempt of the masses, there," she 
cries, " is the misfortune and crime of the 
present moment ! " 

"To execrate the people," she exclaims 
again, " is real blasphemy ; the people is 
worth more than we are." If the peasant 
gave us the empire, says Madame Sand, it 
was because he saw the parties of liberals 
disputing, gesticulating, and threatening to 
tear one another asunder and France too ; 
he was told, The Empire is peace, and he 
accepted the empire. The peasant was 
deceived, he is uninstructed, he moves 
slowly; but he moves, he has admirable 
virtues, and in him is our life. 

Poor Jacques Bonhomme I accuse thee and 
despise thee who will ; for my part I pity thee, 
and in spite of thy faults I shall always love 
thee. Never will I forget how, a chilcl, I was 
carried asleep on thy shoulders, how I was 
given over to thy care and followed thee every- 
where, to the field, the stall, ^he cottage. 
They are all dead, those good old people who 
have borne me in their arms, but I remember 
them well, and I appreciate at this hour, to 
the minutest detail, the pureness, the kind- 
ness, the patience, the good humor, the poetry, 
which presided over that rustic education 
amidst disasters of like kind with those which 
we are undergoing now. Why should I quar- 
rel with the peasant because on certain points 
he feels and thinks differently from what I 
do? There are other essential points on 
which we may feel eternally at one with him 

— probity and charity. 

Another generation of peasants had 
grown up since that first revolutionary 
generation of her youth, and equality, as 
Its reign proceeded, had not deteriorated 
but improved them. 

They have advanced greatly in self-respect 
and well-being, these peasants from twenty 
years old to forty ; they never ask for anything. 
When one meets them they no longer take off 
their hat. If they know you they come up to 
you, and hold out their hand. All foreigners 
who stay with us are struck with their good 
bearing, with their amenity, and the simple, 
friendly, and polite ease of their behavior. 
In presence of people whom they esteem they 
are, like their fathers, models of tact ; but 
they have more than that mere sentiment of 
equality which was all that their fathers had 

— they have the idM of equality, and the 
detennination to maintain it. This step up- 



wards they owe to their having the suffrage. 
Those who would fain treat them as creatures 
of a lower order dare not now show this dis- 
position to their face ; it would not be pleasant. 

Mr. Hamerton's interesting book about 
French life has much, J think, to confirm 
this account of the French peasant. What 
I have seen of France myself (and I have 
seen something) is fully in agreement with 
it. Of a civilization and an equality which 
make the peasant thus human, gives to 
the bulk of the people well-being, probity, 
charity, self-respect, tact, and good man- 
ners, let us pardon Madame Sand if she 
feels and speaks enthusiastically. Some 
little variation on our own eternal trio of 
barbarians, Philistines, populace, or on 
the eternal solo of Philistinism among our 
brethren of the United States and the^ 
colonies, is surely permissible. ' 

Where one is more inclined to differ 
from Madame Sand is in her estimate of 
her Republican friends of the educated 
classes. They may stand, she says, for 
the genius and the soul of France, they 
represent its "exalted imagination and 
profound sensibility," while the peasant 
represents its humble, sound, indispensa- 
ble body. Her protigi, the peasant, is 
much ruder with those eloquent gentle- 
men, and has his own name for one and 
all of them, Pavocat, by which he means 
to convey his belief that words are more to 
be looked for from that quarter than seri- 
ousness and profit. It seems to me by no 
means certain but that the peasant is in 
the right. George Sand herself has said 
admirable things of these friends of hers ; 
of their want of patience, temper, wis- 
dom ; of their " vague and violent way of 
talking;" of their interminable flow of 
"stimulating phrases, cold as death." If 
the educated and speaking classes in 
France were as sound in their way as the 
peasant is in his, France would present a 
different spectacle. Not " imagination and 
sensibility " are so much required from the 
educated classes of France, as simpler, 
more serious views of life ; a knowledge 
how great a part conduct (if M. Challemel- 
Lacour will allow me to say so) fills in it ; 
a better example. The few who see this, 
such as Madame Sand among the dead, 
and M. Renan among the living, perhaps 
awaken on that account, amongst quiet 
observers at a distance, all the more sym- 
pathy; but in France they are isolated. 
All the later work of George Sand, how- 
ever, all her hope of genuine social reno- 
vation, take the simple and serious ground 
so necessary. " The cure for us is far 
more simple than we will believe. All the 



204 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



better natures amongst us see it and feel 
it. It is a good direction given by our- 
selves to our hearts and consciences " — 
une bonne direction donnie par nous- 
mSmes d nos cocurs et d nos co/tsciences. 
These are among the last words of her 
^' Journal'' oi 1870. 

Whether or not the number of George 
Sand's works — always fresh, always at- 
tractive, but poured out too lavishly and 
rapidly — is likely to prove a hindrance to 
her fame, I do not care to consider. Pos- 
terity, alarmed at the way in which its lit- 
erary baggage grows upon it, always seeks 
to leave behind it as much as it can, as 
much as it dares — everything but master- 
pieces. But the immense vibration of 
George Sand's voice upon the ear of 
Europe will not soon die away. Her pas- 
sions and her errors have been abundantly 
talked of. She left them behind her, and 
men's memory of her will leave them be- 
hind also. There will remain of her the 
sense of benefit and stimulus from the 
passage upon earth of that large and frank 
nature, that large and pure utterance — 
the large utterance of the early gods. 
There will remain an admiring and ever- 
widening report of that great soul, simple, 
affectionate, without vanity, without ped- 
antry, human, equitable, patient, kind. 
She believed herself, she said, " to be in 
sympathy, across time and space, with a 
multitude of honest wills which interrogate 
their conscience and try to put themselves 
in accord with it." This chain of sympa- 
thy will extend more and more. 

It is silent, that eloquent voice; it is 
sunk, that noble, that speaking head ; we 
sum up, as we best can, what she said to 
us, and we bid her adieu. From many 
hearts in many lands a troop of tender and 
grateful regrets converge towards her 
humble churchyard in Berry. Let them 
be joined by these words of sad homage 
from one of a nation which she esteemed, 
and which knew her very little and very 
ilL Her guiding thought, the guiding 
thought which she did ner best to make 
ours too, " the sentiment of the ideal life, 
which is none other than man's normal 
life as we shall one day know it," is in 
harmony with words and promises familiar 
to that sacred place where she lies. Ex- 
special resurreclionem mortuorum^ et vi- 
tam venturi sceculi, 

AIatthew Arnold. 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 

BY GEORGE MACDONALD, AUTHOR OF 
"MALCOLM," ETC. 

CHAPTER LXVIII. 
THE CREW OF THE BONNIE ANNIE. 

Having caught as many fish as he 
wanted, Malcolm rowed to the other side 
of the Scaurnose. There he landed, and 
left the dinghy in the shelter of the rocks 
— the fish covered with long, broad-leaved 
tangles ■;— z\\m\itdi the steep cliff and 
sought Blue Peter. The brown village 
was quiet as a churchyard, although the 
sun was now growing hot. Of the men, 
some were not yet returned from the 
night's fishing, and some were asleep in 
their beds after it : not a chimney smoked. 
But Malcolm seemed to have in his own 
single being life and joy enough for a 
world: such an intense consciousness of 
bliss burned within him that in the sight- 
less, motionless village he seemed to him- 
self to stand like an altar blazing in the 
midst of desert Carnac. But he was not 
the only one awake : on the threshold of 
Peter's cottage sat his little Phemy, trying 
to polish a bit of serpentine marSle upon 
the doorstep with the help of water, which 
stood by her side in a broken teacup. 
She lifted her sweet gray eyes and smiled 
him a welcome. 

" Are ye up a'ready, Phemy ? " he said. 

" I haena been doon yet," she answered. 
" My mither was oot last nicht wi' the 
boat, an' Auntie Jinse was wi' the bairn, 
an' sae I cud du as I likit." 

" An' what did ye like, Phemy "> " 

" A' body kens what I like," answered 
the child : " I was oot an' aboot a' nicht 
An' eh, Ma'colm I I hed a vision." 

" What was that, Phemy 1 " 

" I was upo' the tap 0' the Nose jist as 
the sun rase, luikin^ aboot me, an' awa' 
upo' the Boar's Tail I saw twa angels say- 
in' their prayers. Nae doobt they war 
prayin' for the haill warl' i' the quaict o' 
the mornin' afore the din begun. May be 
ane o' them was that auld priest wi' the 
lang name i' the buik o' Genesis, 'at hed 
naither father nor mither, puir man ! — him 
'at gaed aboot blissin' fowk." 

Malcolm thought he might take his own 
time to set the child right, and asked her 
to go and tell her father that he wanted 
to see him. In a few minutes Blue Peter 
appeared, rubbing his eyes — one of the 
dead called too early from the tomb of 
sleep. 

" Freen' Peter,'* said Malcolm, " Tm 
gaein' to speak oot the day." 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



205 



Peter woke up. " Weel," he said, " I 
am glaid o* that, Ma'colm — I beg yer 
pardon, my lord, I sud say. Annie ! '* 

'* Haud a quaiet sough, man. I wadna 
hae 't come oot at Scaurnose first. I'm 
come noo 'cause I want ye to stan' by 
me." 

" I wull that, my lord." 

" Weel, gang an' gether yer boat's crew, 
an' fess them doon to the cove, an' I'll tell 
them, an' maybe they'll stan' by me as 
weel." 

" There's little fear o' that, gien I ken 
my men," answered Peter, and went off, 
rather less than half clothed, the sun 
burning hot upon his back, through the 
sleeping village to call them, while Mal- 
colm went and waited beside the dinghy. 

At length six men in a body, and one 
lagging behind, appeared coming down 
the winding path, all but Peter no doubt 
wondering why they were called so soon 
from their beefs on such a peaceful morn- 
ing after being out the night before. 

Malcolm went to meet them. " Freen's," 
he said, " I'm in want o' yer help." 

"Onything ye like, Ma'colm, sae far's 
I'm concern t, 'cep' it be to ride yer mere. 
That I wull no tak in han'," said Jeames 
Gentle. 

" It's no that," returned Malcolm. " It's 
naething freely sae hard's that, I'm think- 
in'. The hard 'ill be to believe what I'm 
gaein' to tell ye." 

"Ye'll no be gaein* to set up for a 
proaphet ? " said Gimel, with something 
approaching a sneer. Girnel was the one 
who came down behind the rest. 

** Na, na, — naething like it," said Blue 
Peter. 

** But first ye'U promise to haud yer 
tongues for half a day ? " said Malcolm. 

** Ay, ay, we'll no clype." " We s' haud 
wer tongues ! " cried one and another and 
another, and all seemed to assent. 

" Weel," said Malcolm, " my name 's no 
Ma'colm MacPhail, but " 

" We a' ken that," said Girnel. 

"An' what mair du ye ken?" asked 
Blue Peter, with some anger at his inter- 
ruption. 

" Ow, naething." 

" Weel, ye ken little," said Peter ; and 
the rest laughed. 

" I'm the Markis o' Lossie," said Mal- 
colm. 

Every man but Peter laughed again : all 
took it tor a joke precursive of some seri- 
ous announcement. That which it would 
have least surprised them to hear would 
have been that he was a natural son of the 
late marquis. 



" My name 's Ma'colm Colonsay," re* 
sumecl Malcolm quietly, "an' I'm the 
saxt Markis o' Lossie." 

A dead silence followed, and in doubt, 
astonishment, bewilderment, and vague 
awe, accompanied in the case of two or 
three by a strong inclination to laugh, 
with which they struggled, belief began. 
Always a curious observer of humnnity, 
Malcolm calmly watched them. From 
discord of expression, most of their faces 
had grown idiotic. But after a few mo- 
ments of stupefaction, first one, then an- 
other, turned his eyes upon Blue Peter, 
and perceiving that the matter was to him 
not only serious, but evidently no news, 
each began to come to his senses, the 
chaos within him slowly arranged itself, 
and his face gradually settled into an 
expression of sanity, the foolishness dis- 
appearing, while the wonder and pleasure 
remained. 

" Ye maunna tak it ill, my lord," said 
Peter, " gien the laads be ta'en aback wi* 
the news. It's a some suddent shift o* 
the win', ye see, my lord." 

" I wuss yer lordship weel," thereupon 
said one, and held out his hand. 

" Lang life to yer lordship ! " said an- 
other. 

Each spoke a hearty word and shook 
hands with him — all except Girnel, who 
held back, looking on with his right hand 
in his tro user-pocket. He was one who 
always took the opposite side — a toler- 
ably honest and trustworthy soul, with a 
good many knots and pieces of cross- 
grain in the timber of him. His old Adam 
was the most essential and thorough of 
dissenters, always arguing and disputing, 
especially on theological questions. " Na/* 
said Girnel, "ye maun satisfee me first 
wha ye are, an' what ye want o' me. I'm 
no to be drawn into onything 'at Y dinna 
ken a' aboot aforehan'. I s' no tie myseF 
up wi' ony promises. Them 'at gangs 
whaur they kenna may Ian' at the widdie 

" Nae doobt," said Malcolm, " yer ain 
jeedgement 's mair to ye nor my word, 
Girnel ; but saw ye ever onything in me 
'at wad justifee ye in no lippenin' to that, 
sae far 's it gaed ? " 

" Ow na ! I'm no sayin' that, naither. 
But what hae ye to shaw anent the privin' 
o"t?" 

" I have papers signed by my father the 
late marquis, and sealed and witnessed by 
well-known gentlemen of the neighbor- 
hood." 

" Whaur are they ? " said Girnel, hold- 
ing out his hand. 



2o6 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



" I don't carry such valuable things 
about me," answered Malcolm. " But if 
you go with the rest you shall see them 
afterwards." 

" I'll du naething i* the dark," persisted 
Girnel. "Whan I see the peppers IMl 
ken what to du." With a nod of the head 
as self-important as decisive he turned liis 
back. 

" At all events," said Malcolm, " you 
will say nothing about it before you hear 
from one of us again ? " 

** I mak nae promises," answered Gir- 
nel from behind his own back. 

A howl arose from the rest. 

"Ye promised aVeadv," said Blue 
Peter. 

" Na, I didna that : I never said a 
word." 

" What right, then, had you to remain 
and listen to my disclosure ? " said Mal- 
colm. "If you be guilty of such a mean 
trick as betray me and ruin my plans, no 
honest man in Portlossie or Scaurnose but 
will scorn you." 

"There! tak ye that!" said Peter. 
** An' 1 s' promise ye, ye s' never lay leg 
ower the gunnel o' my boat again. I s' 
hae nane but Christi-an men i' my pey." 

" Ye hired me for the sizzon, Blew 
Peter," said Girnel, turning defiantly. 

" Oh ! ye s' hae yer wauges. I'm no 
ane to creep oot o' a bargain, or say 'at I 
didna promise. Ye s' hae yer penny. Ye 
s' get your reward, never fear. But into 
my boat ye s' no come. We'll hae nae 
Auchans i' oor camp. Eh, Girnel, man, 
but ye hae lost yersel' the day ! Hell 
never loup far 'at winna lippen. The auld 
worthies tuik their life i' their han', but 
ye tak yer fit {foot) i' yours. I'm clean 
afifronlit 'at ever I hed ye amo' my men." 

But with that there rushed over Peter 
the recollection of how he had himself 
mistrusted, not Malcolm's word indeed, 
but his heart. He turned, and clasping 
his hands in sudden self-reproach, "Mv 
lord, I saired ye ill mysel' ance," he cried, 
"for I misdoobted 'at ye wasna the same 
to me cfter ye cam to yer ain. I beg yer 
pardon, my lord, here i' the face o' my 
freen's. It was ill-temj^er an' pride i' me, 
jist the same as it's noo in Girnel there ; 
an' ye maun forgie him, as ye forgae me, 
my lord, as sune 's ye can." 

" I'll du that, my Peter, the verra mo- 
ment he wants to be forgi'en," said Mal- 
colm. 

But Girnel turned with a grunt, and 
moved away toward the cliff. 

" This 'II never du," said Peter. " A 
man 'at's honest- i' the main may play the 



verra dog afore he gets the deevil oot o' 
'im ance he's in like that. Gang efter 'im, 
laads, an' kep {intercept) 'im an' keep 'im. 
We'll hae to cast a k-not or twa aboot 'im 
an' lay 'im i' the boddom o' the boat." 

The six had already started after him 
like one man. But Malcolm cried, " Let 
him go : he has done me no wrong yet, 
and I don't believe will do me any. But 
for no risk must we prevent wrong with 



wrong. 



n 



So Girnel was allowed to depart — 
scarcely in peace, for he was already 
ashamed of himself. With the under- 
standing that they were to be ready to his 
call, and that they should hear from him 
in the course oi the day, Malcolm left 
them and rowed back to the Psyche. 
There he took his basket of fish on his 
arm, which he went and distributed ac* 
cording to his purjxfse, ending with Mrs. 
Courthope at the house. Then he fed 
and dressed Kelpie, saddled her and gal- 
loped to Duff Harbor, where he found 
Mr. Soutar at breakfast, and arranged 
with him to be at Lossie House at two 
o'clock. On his way back he called on 
Mr. Morrison, and requested his presence 
at the same hour. Skirting the back of 
the house, and riding as straight as he 
could, he then made for Scaurnose, and 
appointed his friends to be near the house 
at noon, so placed as not to attract obser* 
vation, and yet be within hearing of his 
whistle from door or window in tne front. 
Returning to the house, he put up Kelpie, 
rubbed her down and fed her ; then, find- 
ing there was yet some time to spare, paid 
a visit to the factor. He found his lady, 
for all his present of fish in the earlier 
morning, anything but friendly. She did 
all she could to humble him — insisted on 
paying him for the fish, and ordered him, 
because they smelt of the stable, to take 
off his boots before he went up-stairs — to 
his master's room, as she phrased it. But 
Mr. Crathie was cordial, and, to Malcolm's 
great satisfaction, much recovered. He 
had better than pleasant talk with him. 

CHAPTER LXIX. 
LIZZY'S BABY. 

While they were out in the fishing-boat 
together, Clementina had, with less diffi- 
culty than she had anticipated, persuaded 
Lizzy to tell Lady Lossie her secret. It 
was in the hope of an interview with her 
false lover that the poor girl had consent- 
ed so easily. 

A great longing had risen within her 
to have the father of her child acknowl- 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



ao7 



edge him — only to her — taking him once 
in nis arms. That was all. She had no 
hope — thought indeed she had no desire 
— for herself. But a kind word to him 
would be welcome as light The love that 
covers sins had covered the multitude of 
bis, aod although hopelessness had put 
desire to sleep, she would gladly have 
given her life for a loving smile from him. 
But mingled with this longing to see him 
once with his child in his arms, a certain 
loyalty to the house of Lossie also influ- 
enced her to listen to the solicitation of 
Lady Clementina and tell the marchioness 
the truth. She cherished no resentment 
against Liftore, but not therefore was she 
willing to allow a poor young thing like 
Lady Lossie, whom they all liked, to be 
sacrificed to such a man, who would doubt- 
less at length behave badly enough to her 
also. 

With trembling hands, and heart now 
beating wildly, now failing for fear, she 
dressed her baby and herself as well as 
she could, and about one o'clock went to 
the house. 

Now, nothing would have better pleased 
Lady Clementma than that Liftore and 
Lizzy should meet in Florimel's presence, 
but she recoiled altogether from the small 
stratagems, not to mention the lies, neces- 
sary to the effecting of such a confronta- 
tion. So she had to content herself with 
bringing the two girls together, and when 
Lizzy was a little rested and had had a 
glass of wine, went to look for Florimel. 

She found her in a little room adjoining 
the library, which, on her first coming to 
Lossie, she had chosen for her waking 
nest. Liftore had, if not quite the freedom 
of the spot, yet privileges there, but at that 
moment Florimel was alone in it. Clem- 
entina informed her that a fisher-girl, with 
a sad story which she wanted to tell her, 
had come to the house ; and Florimel, who 
was not only kind-hearted, but relished 
the position she imagined herself to oc- 
cupy as lady of the place, at once assent- 
ed to her proposal to bring the young 
woman to her there. 

Now, Florimel and the earl had had a 
small quarrel the night before, after Clem- 
entina left the dinner-table, and for the 
pleasure of keeping it up Florimel had not 
appeared at breakfast, and had declined to 
ride with his lordship, who had therefore 
been all the morning on the watch for an 
opportunity of reconciling himself. It so 
happened that from the end of one of the 
long narrow passages in which the house 
abounded, he caught a glimpse of Clemen- 
tioa's dress vanishing trough the library 



door, and took the lady for Florimel on 
on her way to her boudoir. 

When Clementina entered with Lizzy 
carrying her child, Florimel instantly sus- 
pected the truth, both as to who she was 
and as to the design of her appearance. 
Her face flushed, for her heart filled with 
anger, chiefly indeed against Malcolm, but 
against the two women as well, who, she 
did not doubt, had lent themselves to his 
designs, whatever they might be. She 
rose, drew herself up, and stood prepared 
to act for both Liftore and herself. 

Scarcely, however, had the poor girl, 
trembling at the evident displeasure the 
sight of her caused in Florimel, opened 
her mouth to answer her haughty inquiry 
as to her business, when Lord Liftore, dar- 
ing an entrance without warning, opened 
the door behind her, and almost as he 
opened it began his apologv. At the sound 
of his voice Lizzy turned with a cry, and 
her small remaining modicum of self pos- 
session vanished at sight of him round 
whose phantom in her bosom whirred the 
leaves of her withered life on the stinging 
blasts of her shame and sorrow. As much 
from inability to stand as in supplication 
for the coveted favor, she dropped on her 
knees before him, incapable of uttering a 
word, but holding up her child imploringly. 
Taken altogether by surprise, and not 
knowing what to say or do, the earl stood 
and stared for a moment; then, moved 
by a dull spirit of subterfuge, fell back on 
the pretence of knowing nothing about 
her. " Well, young woman," he said, af- 
fecting cheerfulness, " what do you want 
with me ? I didn't advertise for a baby. 
Pretty child, though ! " 

Lizzy turned white as death, and her 
whole body seemed to give a heave of 
agony. Clementina had just taken the 
child from her arms when she sank mo- 
tionless at his feet. Florimel went to the 
bell. 

But Clementina prevented her from 
ringing. " 1 will take her away," she said. 
" Do not expose her to your servants. Lady 
Lossie, my Lord Liftore is the father of 
this child ; and if you can marry him after 
the way you have seen him use its mother, 
you are not loo good for him, and 1 will 
trouble myself no more about you." 

" 1 know the author of this calumny," 
cried Florimel, panting and flushed. " You 
have been listening to the inventions of 
an ungrateful dependant. You slander 
my guest." 

"Is it a calumny, my lord? Do I slan- 
der you.? " said Lady Clementina, turning 
sharply upon the earl. 



2oa 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



His lordship made her a cool obei- 
sance. 

Clementina ran into the library, laid the 
child in a big chair, and returned for the 
mother. She was already coming a little 
to herself and feeling about blindly for her 
baby, while Florimel and Liftore were 
looking out of the window, with their backs 
toward her. Clementina raised and led 
her from the room. But in the doorway 
she turned and said, "Good-bye, Lady 
Lossie. I thank you for your hospitality, 
but I can of course be your guest no 
longer." 

** Of course not. There is no occasion 
for prolonged leave-taking," Florimel re- 
turned with the air of a woman of forty. 

" Florimel, you ^ill curse the day you 
marry that man," cried Clementina, and 
closed the door. 

She hurried Lizzy to the library, put the 
baby in her arms, and clasped them both 
in her own. 

A gush of tears lightened the oppressed 
heart of the mother. " Lat me oot o' the 
hoose, for God's sake I " she cried ; and 
Clementina, almost as anxious to leave it 
as she, helped her down to the hall. When 
she saw the open door she rushed out of 
it as if escaping from the pit 

Now, Malcolm, as he came from the 
factor's, had seen her go in with her baby 
in her arms, and suspected the hand of 
Clementina. Wondering and anxious, 
but not very hopeful as to what might 
come of it, he waited close by ; and when 
now he saw Lizzy dart from the house in 
wild perturbation, he ran from the cover 
of the surrounding trees into the open 
drive to meet her. 

" Ma'colm 1 " groaned the poor girl, 
holding out her baby, " he winna own till 
't ! He winna alloo *at he kens aucht 
aboot me or the bairn aither ! " 

Malcolm had taken the child from her, 
and was clasping him to his bosom. " He's 
the warst rascal, Lizzy," he said, " 'at ever 
God made an' the deevil blaudit." 

" Na, na," cried Lizzy ; " the likes o' 
him whiles kills the wuman, but he wadna 
du that. Na, na, he's nae the warst: 
there's a heap waur nor him." 

" Did ye see my mistress ? " asked Mal- 
colm. 

" Ow ay, but she luikit sae angry at me, 
I cudna speyk. Him an' her's ower 
thrang for her to believe onything again' 
Mm. An' whatever the bairn 's to du 
wantin' a father ! " 

" Lizzy," said Malcolm, clasping the 
child again to his bosom, *'I s' be a father 
to yer bairn — that is, as weel 's ane 'at's 



no ver man can be." And he kissed the 
child tenderly. 

The same moment an undefined impulse 
— the drawing of eyes, probably — made 
him lift his towards the house : half lean- 
ing from the open window of the boudoir 
above him stood Florimel and Liftore, and 
just as he looked up Liftore was turning 
to Florimel with a smile that seemed to 
say, " There I I told you so ! He is the 
father himself." 

Malcolm replaced the infant in his 
mother's arms and strode toward the 
house. 

Imagining he went to avenge her 
wrongs, Lizzy ran after him. ** Ma'colm ! 
Ma'colm I " she cried, " for my sake I 
He's the father o' my bairn I " 

Malcolm turned. " Lizzy," he said sol- 
emnly, " I winna lay han' upon 'im." 

Lizzy pressed her child closer with a 
throb of relief. 

" Come in yersel* an' see," he added. 

" I daurna 1 I daurna ! " she said. But 
she lingered about the door. 

CHAPTER LXX. 
THE DISCLOSURE. 

When the earl saw Malcolm coming, 
although he was no coward and had rea- 
son to trust his skill, yet knowing himself 
both in the wrong and vastly inferior in 
strength to his enemy, it may be pardoned 
him that for the next few seconds his heart 
doubled its beats. But of all things he 
must not show fear before Florimel. 
" What can the fellow be after now ? " he 
said. " I must go down to him." 

" No, no ! don't go near him : he may 
be violent," objected Florimel, and laid 
her hand on his arm with a beseeching 
look in her face. '* He is a dangerous 
man." 



» 



Liftore laughed. " Stop here till I re- 
turn," he said, and left the room. 

But Florimel followed, fearful of what 
might happen, and enraged with her 
brother. 

Malcolm's brief detention by Lizzy 

fave Liftore a little advantage, for just as 
lalcolm approached the top of the great 
staircase, Liftore gained it. Hastening 
to secure the command of the position, and 
resolved to shun all parley, he stood ready 
to strike. Malcolm, however, caught sight 
of him and his attitude in time, and, fear- 
ful of breaking his word to Lizzy, pulled 
himself up abruptly a few steps from the 
top just as Florimel apeared. 

** MacPhail," she said, sweeping to the 
stair like an indignant goddess, "I dis- 



THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 



209 



charge you from my service. Leave the 
house instantly." 

Malcolm turned, flew down, and ran to 
the servants* stair, half the length of the 
house away. As he crossed the servants' 
hall he saw Rose. She was the only one 
in the house except Clementina to whom 
he could look for help. ** Come after me, 
Rose," he said, without stopping. 

She followed instantly, as fast as she 
could run, and saw him enter the drawing- 
room. Florimel and Liftore were there. 
The earl had Florimel's hand in his. 

" For God's sake, my lady ! " cried Mal- 
colm, " hear me one word before you 
promise that man anything." 

His lordship started back from Flori- 
mel, and turned upon Malcolm in a fury. 
But he had not now the advantage of the 
stair, and hesitated. Florimel's eyes di- 
lated with wrath. 

" 1 tell you for the last time, my lady," 
said Malcolm, ** if you marry that man, you 
will marry a liar and a scoundrel." 

Liftore laughed, and his imitation of 
scorn was wonderfully successful, for he 
felt sure of Florimel now that she had thus 
taken his part. " Shall I ring for the ser- 
vants, Lady Lossie, to put the fellow 
out? " he said. " The man is as mad as a 
March hare." 

Meantime, Lady Clementina, her maid 
having gone to send her man to get horses 
for her at once, was alone in ner room, 
which was close to the drawing-room : 
hearing Malcolm's voice, she ran to the 
door, and saw Rose in a listening attitude 
at that of thcf drawing-room. " What are 
you doing there ? " she said. 

" Mr. MacPhail told me to follow him, 
my lady, and I am waiting here till he 
wants me." 

Clementina went into the drawing-room, 
and was present during all that now fol- 
lows. Lizzy also, hearing loud voices and 
still afraid of mischief, had come peering 
up the stair, and now approached the 
other door, behind Florimel and the earl. 

" So," cried Florimel, " this is the way 
you keep your promise to my father ? " 

"It is, my lady. To associate the name 
of Liftore with his would be to blot the 
scutcheon of Lossie. He is not fit to walk 
the street with men : his touch is to you 
an utter degradation. My lady, in the 
name of your father, I beg a word with you 
in private." 

" You insult me." 

" I beg of you, my lady, for your own 
dear sake." 

"Once more I order you to leave my 
house, and never set foot in it again." 

LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 95O 



"Y